The Scavengers
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: *AU Setting* When an unexpected moment causes a shift between Draco and Hermione, keeping things hidden from their friends becomes the least of their concerns. Secrets from a bloodstained past begin to unravel, and something diabolical stalks the haunted grounds of Rowling University. Something that has its twisted sights set on Hermione. ADULT SITUATIONS.
1. Heart-Stopping

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**CONTENT WARNING:** **My AU fanfictions tend to veer very far from their source material, despite parallels, and/or the use of certain key canon elements. If this does not sit well with you as a fan of the source material, then please, read no further. Thank you.**

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**I'm American, as such I fail horribly at use of the metric system, so there's that—inches rather than centimeters & what-not (but I'm trying to amend this). But, all the usage of words such as bloody, bollocks, prat & daft is genuine on my part, as I have some British ancestry, and was raised with these terms.**

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***NEW READERS, PLEASE NOTE: I am going through this fic chapter by chapter and swapping out some of the 'Americanisms' for their UK counterparts. So if you get to a chapter in which 'dormitories' or 'dorms' is used rather than Halls, or see any sort of switch where in one word or phrase was used and it suddenly switches, please understand this only means that I haven't reached that chapter, yet.**

**Also, if you are British and see something you know I should be using a different term for (or if I've gotten something blatantly incorrect), please do not hesitate to let me know. But, let me know kindly, lol. If you are not comfortable leaving reviews, then a private message is always welcome : )**

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**DISCLAIMER:_ Harry Potter _characters & certain other key elements(c) JK Rowling. I make no profit from this story.**

**Chapter One**

Heart-stopping

Hermione Granger read that lone, terrible word once more, willing it to change. She wasn't so fortunate, for no matter how she squinted, tilted her head, or turned the ragged-edged slip of paper in her hand, the writing remained the same. The letters mocked and jeered her. They practically stood up from the thin surface and hissed at her.

_Slytherin._

"Hermione," Lavender Brown cooed with forced, but believable sweetness in her tone, twirling the length of one dark-blonde braid between her fingers.

The girl looked up, blinking rapidly, as though she'd forgotten what was happening.

"The others have already left to find their items. If you wait any longer to get moving, you're going to lose for certain."

With a sigh, Hermione nodded. Her secondary school rival was right, of course. But they'd agreed to turn over a new leaf. Stuck in the same Hall of Residence for at their university, they were trying to be friends. Lavender was putting in the effort to see that through, to show that she was past their year 12 dispute over Ron Weasley—that redheaded menace to women everywhere. They'd all been struggling for months to re-establish connections to each other that wouldn't rehash painful memories.

Stuck on Rowling University's small campus for Spring Break, the girls of Gryffindor Hall of Residence and some of the faculty were nearly the only occupants. To prevent the girls from losing their minds out of boredom, Lavender had decided on a game. A scavenger hunt, she'd said.

Hermione was simply dying to point out that retrieving a _single _item from another Hall did not a scavenger hunt make. But then Katie Bell and Parvati Patil—whose twin sister Padma, in the Ravenclaw Hall, was lucky enough to be on a trip with some boy she was dating—had not argued. They seemed to find the notion of sneaking into the other Halls to retrieve an item that would prove they'd trespassed on their targeted building without being caught somewhat thrilling.

And technically, it wasn't as though they weren't permitted in the other Halls. The threat, and the thrill, of Lavender's game was that they might get caught stealing school property. Hermione almost hated to admit that she'd agreed.

Until she saw the name of the Hall she'd picked. But, meeting Lavender half-way was the least she could do.

Lavender's eyes widened, her gaze shooting from Hermione's face to the paper and back. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh, no, no." Hermione cleared her throat as she tucked the torn slip into the pocket of her jeans. They were supposed to keep their targets secret until they returned with their items; the winner would be determined not only by time, but also by distance between the Halls, and size of the target building. "I'm just being a coward. Right, then. Off I go."

Lavender watched the other girl spin on a heel, newly-straightened and sleek golden brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as she disappeared out the door of the Gryffindor Hall common room. Holding in a self-satisfied sigh, Miss Brown pulled an empty saucer across the table and upended the paper bag from which the others had drawn the names, dumping a bunch of tiny, crumpled paper slips into it.

She giggled quietly as she extracted a lighter from the end table drawer and set the dish's tiny, fragile contents ablaze. Six extra pieces, all bearing the same name. They were _supposed_ to be duplicates, equally divided between the three other Halls, but Lavender _might _have forgotten the rules for a moment. Whoopsie. Of course, none of the girls had seen the way she'd held the bag. No one noticed how she carefully slipped the more pleasant Halls' names into Katie's and Parvati's fingers, guaranteeing that Hermione would only be able to pick the one she dreaded the most.

Slight of hand, always so much more useful than anyone thought. Oh, and of course, there was that one _other_ detail she'd forgotten to tell Hermione about Slytherin Hall, but . . . .

Well, Hermione would find out soon enough.

Lavender sat back, resting her heels on the edge of the table. A smile curved her lips as she imagined how devastated the star pupil would be when she at last received a blemish on her otherwise spotless scholastic record.

She forced a gulp down her throat as she neared the building. As if Rowling University— with the antiquated church grounds, and crumbling little cemetery _on_ campus— wasn't creepy enough based on aesthetics alone, the sun had already set. And she was sneaking into what was rumored to be the most haunted of the four campus Halls of Residence.

Hell, Gryffindor was bad enough with footsteps in empty rooms, taps on the shoulder when no one else was around, and doors that swung open or shut, as though they possessed minds of their own. At least the building was empty of people.

She wouldn't have to fear being caught, she just had to fear having her wits frightened out of her by something that, technically, wasn't even _there_.

Fabulous.

A chill danced up her spine, and she wrapped her arms around herself, bunching the cuffs of her sweatshirt's sleeves in her fists. _Just the wind, just the wind, you're being a_ complete_ idiot. _There was no call for being so skittish.

True, the only person who'd ever despised her more than Lavender—well, secondary-school-Lavender, anyway— resided in Slytherin Hall. Perhaps that was only fair, as she despised him right back. She counted it a small blessing that he was off, somewhere. Jet-setting with his stomach-turningly snobbish parents, no doubt.

_Stupid legacy kids,_ she thought grudgingly. God, she'd hoped he'd have chosen a different university, but no. He _had_ to be at this school, because his father had gone here, and his father's father and blah, blah, blah. Ugh, the whole elitist process sickened her. And if that wasn't enough, the supervisor of Slytherin Hall was the professor who hated her guts. No teacher had _ever_ hated her in the course of her entire scholastic career!

Honestly, there were days when she felt as though Slytherin Hall, itself, was out to get her.

She paused, glancing up at the imposing grey stone edifice; its iron-wrought gated windows and gargoyle-capped spires seemed to glare down at her. Once more a shiver threatened, but she forced the sensation away.

Already she felt the tickling press on the back of her neck, as though she was being watched. _Paranoia, Hermione, that's all it is_, she forced the words through her brain as she turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. As expected, not a soul as far as the eye could see. If only the misty glow of streetlamps filtering through tree branches onto deserted paths was an affect that calmed one's nerves rather than rattled them.

Her gaze returned to the frozen, gnarled creatures clinging to the steepled rooftops. She tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of her head that reminded her that this was where Tom Riddle had attended school. That Slytherin was the Hall in which he'd rested his head at night, not long before he started . . . .

Hermione shook her head, she would not think about that, now. It was bad enough that scar on her best friend's forehead was a reminder of such dark and tragic events. She didn't blame Harry at all for trying to keep it hidden beneath his hair all these years.

The last thing she needed was to think about an eighteen-years-dead serial killer as she tip-toed through the corridors of a building that, God help her, even_ looked_ haunted. Lights inside the Hall were on for students who might return from break early, which should have eased her apprehension. Somehow, though, the brightness peeking through the corridor windows only added to the cold, ominous feeling twisting in the pit of her stomach.

She climbed the steps, pushing away the last of her resistance as she crossed the porch. Hermione gripped the doorknob for a brief moment before snatching her hand back.

"On second thought," she whispered, returning to the steps. No one was home, but she still wouldn't be able to explain what she was doing at Slytherin Hall to any faculty or students who might see her.

Tossing another cursory glance about the campus grounds, she ducked her head and jogged around the side of the building to the back door.

And oh, did she feel like a bloody idiot, hiding from _nobody_.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she turned the knob to find the door unlocked. Hiding from nobody would have seemed an intelligent thing in comparison to having her attempt at covert maneuvers stymied by a dead bolt.

Easing the door open, she slipped inside and closed it behind her with excruciating slowness. Her shoulders slumped. With her unhurried pace, there was no way she would win the game, but it wasn't in her nature to give up on a challenge, either. Nodding to herself—she _would_ finish this, even if Katie and Parvati were both already back at Gryffindor Hall—Hermione turned and crept through the kitchen toward an arched entryway.

She supposed it was a help that their Hall and Slytherin seemed to all follow the same, basic, layout. From the kitchen at the back—that, if anything like her dorm, was really only used for storing midnight-snack goodies and hiding stashes of ale and wine coolers—a corridor, this corridor, would lead her to the common area. When she stepped from the narrow hallway into the large, lavishly decorated parlor, she let out a breath she'd not realized she'd been holding.

She also reaffirmed her loathing of legacy brats.

Out of all the Halls, Slytherin was well known for housing the largest number of so-and-so's child, grandchild, or great-great-nephew, or whatever, and the posh furnishings reflected a favoritism the school would never admit to showing. Certainly, Gryffindor's amenities were comfortable enough, but they did show age; the red cushions and gold carpets had a certain well-worn, lived-in feel about them.

But Slytherin? The green and black _everything_ was plush and new—vibrant emerald and deep, rich jet everywhere she looked. So very different from the outward appearance of the building that the contrast jarred her a bit.

"Dammit, Hermione, get it together. You have a few more years of hating this ahead of you." Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and turned toward what she knew was the door to their basement.

Like her own Hall, nothing of note was in the common area; she doubted the girls would be satisfied if she tried returning with a green and black throw pillow. If the pattern held, then the basement was a small recreational area. Plaques and trophies of all sorts earned by the members of Slytherin would be down there.

She might be the last one back, but she was going to be sure to grab something worth her trouble.

A floorboard creaked overhead, lodging her heart in her throat. Biting her lip to keep from calling out—the knee-jerk reaction to ask if anyone was there was as stupid as it was overwhelming and sudden—she dashed into the basement stairwell.

Even if that _was_ a person and not her imagination—worse yet, some invisible specter—she didn't want to be caught here. She'd just . . . have to climb out a basement window or something.

Despite her hurry, she descended the steps gingerly, measuring her pace. Stumbling to the bottom over her own two feet, or making too much noise rushing would only serve to jangle her already fraying nerves. Dammit, she was braver than this!

Again the sense of being watched poured over her as she set her feet on the basement's plush, carpeted floor. She looked across the varied game-tables, the leather-seated benches and over-stocked vending machines. She told herself with such surroundings, some_thing_ watching her should seem unlikely, perhaps downright laughable.

Unfortunately, _herself_ did not find that assurance comforting . . . or very believable. Hermione briefly considered that she should work on the confidence of her inner dialogues when this was over.

She crossed the room, her gaze sweeping over everything as she passed. Along the furthest wall, plaques gleamed, perfectly outlining an enormous glass trophy case. Counting on the case being locked—coupled with the difficulty of smuggling a giant gold-plated cup out beneath her fitted sweatshirt—she set her eyes on a finely polished square of wood-and-metal that was far enough down the wall that it was both easy for her to reach, and not very prominently displayed, thus not as quick to be noticed missing.

"Perfect," she breathed the word, slipping her fingers beneath the plague and pulling it gently free of its hooks.

A shuffling reached her from a narrow corridor she'd not noticed a moment ago. Teeth sinking into her bottom lip, Hermione stepped to one side, peering around the trophy case—the darn thing was so expansive that the shelving hid the entrance from view unless one was looking at the corridor head-on.

Gryffindor Hall had no such corridor. Well, if that wasn't creepy . . . .

Again the sound came, giving her a start and her prize slipped from her hands. Choking back a gasp, she dropped to one knee, catching the plaque a hair's breadth from connecting with the glass door of the display.

_Way too close_. She should go. _Now_, she realized as she stood. Whatever made that noise wasn't her concern.

But when the shuffling came again, she found herself moving down the corridor rather than sprinting back toward the staircase. Of all the times for her curiosity to take the helm . . . .

Despite her fear, she'd always wanted to see a ghost—sort of. She'd felt things and heard things, but _seeing_ something? Now that was an idea as exciting as it was terrifying.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Hermione," she whispered in sing-song as she spied a door.

This corridor felt _strange_. It looked as though it didn't belong to the interior of Slytherin Hall, but it certainly matched the spooky _ex_terior. The wood paneling was cracked and water-damaged in spots. Places on the walls appeared charred. How odd, she hadn't read of any fires in the school's history.

A sound came from behind the half-open door at the end, one that made her think of a crate being jostled. She froze a moment, her eyes closing and opening again slowly.

"Please be rats," she murmured, her words barely a thread of sound against the unsettling stillness surrounding her.

She poked her head into the room, the plaque clutched in one hand as she curled the fingers of the other around the rough, pitted wood of the door.

_No one in sight . . . ._ Stepping into the room, she let out a shaky sigh as her gaze wandered over old bookcases stuffed with tomes, old periodicals and what appeared to be an assortment of random, aged knickknacks. The rabid book-lover in her demanded that she investigate the dusty, cracked-leather bound volumes immediately!

But_ no!_ She'd wasted so much time already. She needed to leave.

So when the sound came again, she decided to ignore it; to turn on a heel and exit the room. Finding herself, instead, slinking _toward_ the shelves from where the noise seemed to emanate was an unpleasant surprise.

_I am _so_ stupid, _she thought, her head shaking. Even reminding herself that _this_ was why the idiots were the first people to die in horror movies did not halt her steps.

If she saw nothing, she would turn and run right back out, leaving Slytherin Hall behind her as fast as her legs would carry her. On the other hand, if she saw something . . . she would _still_ run out, barely able to refrain from screaming bloody murder as she went.

She really couldn't help herself, she _had_ to know what that noise was. Hermione leaned around the bookcase, bracing for whatever she might find.

The shock of seeing that head of all-too-familiar platinum hair bent toward a stack of old newspapers forced a single word from her lips. "Malfoy?"

Immediately straightening up, she clamped her free hand over her mouth, but it was too late. As soon as she'd turned away, she heard his footsteps behind her.

"Granger!" His voice was quiet, but sharp, ringing through the room.

Pivoting to look up at him, she was not the least bit surprised to see his angular features twisted into that leering scowl he seemed to reserve solely for her. "I . . . didn't mean to interrupt. If you don't mind, I'll just be going, then."

His eyebrows—always so dark beneath his pale widow's peak—shot up as he smoothly stepped around her, placing himself between her and the door. "Oh, it seems I do mind. What are you doing here?"

"What are you?" she shot back, thoughtlessly.

"I _live_ here."

"I thought you were off terrorizing innocent vacationers somewhere."

Draco frowned, blue eyes narrowing in distaste as he held her venomous gaze. "We returned from terrorizing a bit ahead of schedule. I will ask again, what are _you—" _He fell silent, his attention snagging on the plaque in her hand.

Not missing a beat, Hermione tucked the item behind her back.

His scowl vanished, a mirthful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Oh, decided on a life of crime, have we?"

"This isn't what it looks like," she said, her words slid out in a seething whisper.

"I'm sure the dean would love to hear all about exactly what it_ is. _Why don't we go find Professor McGonagall? Neither of us seems terribly busy at the moment."

"That's really not . . . you know what? I'll just put this back and go; no need for fuss."

He folded his arms across his chest and rolled his shoulders back, somehow making himself seem taller than several centimeters in height he had on her. "I don't think so."

The air around them chilled so suddenly that the temperature change cut right through Hermione's sweatshirt, making her shiver. She almost wanted to blame her imagination, but Draco's eyes widened and he turned his head, finally pulling his gaze from hers to glance around the room.

A low, deep voice rumbled, though she couldn't quite tell from where—it seemed both near and far away at the same time—nor could she make out what it said.

He spun toward the door, moving to place himself squarely in front of Hermione as the guttural, muttered words came again.

"What is that?" she whispered so low she was surprised he heard her.

"I don't know. I've heard it before, but I don't know."

She forced a gulp down her throat, unaware of stepping closer to him as she touched a hand to his back. "Then the rumors are true about Slytherin Hall's hauntings?"

He only nodded, tipping his head to one side in an effort to listen more carefully.

Seconds ticked by, painfully slow. Hermione stood on her toes, pressing a bit nearer as she strained to hear, as well.

As fast as the warmth was leeched from the air, the chill receded.

The tense set of his shoulders eased. "It's gone," he said quietly.

Hermione remembered to breathe as she lowered her heels to the floor. And then remembered in a terrible flash who she'd just hidden behind.

Before she remembered to step _away_, she found Draco's head tilted back ever so slightly, his gaze angled toward her fingers.

Her hand slid away as he turned to face her. "Why . . ." Oh, she was having trouble putting the unbelievably bizarre occurrence into words. This didn't seem possible—like seeing The Loch Ness Monster, or discovering the existence of vampires by becoming one's dinner. "Why did—why did that seem like you were _protecting_ me, just now?"

No scowl appeared to mar his features; his eyes didn't narrow into a menacing glare. He merely looked at her. His mouth opened and closed, no words coming out, once, twice, before he managed to point out that she'd behaved just as strangely.

"Why did it seem like you were all right with that?"

Now Hermione couldn't find anything to say. She felt the world tilting and shifting around her. This was _not _right. She was supposed to be angry, and snarky while she brandished her intellectual superiority like the weapon it was, and he was supposed to be cruel and condescending . . . and equally snarky.

She was _supposed_ to be trying to talk her way out of being dragged to see Professor McGonagall. He was _supposed_ to be the one dragging her along as her protests fell upon deaf ears.

But none of that was happening. Instead the silence of the room rang in her ears and the stillness in the air pressed on her like it had weight.

And for some reason, she was acutely aware of the feel of his breath on her cheek. What was _wrong_ with her?

"Mr. Malfoy, are you . . . down here?"

Hermione's heart fell into her stomach at the awful, unmistakable droning of Professor Snape's voice. Oh, this was definitely shaping up to be the worst night of her considerably short life.

Draco's gaze shot over her shoulder to one of the rectangular basement windows. "The latch on that one is broken," he murmured.

He didn't wait for her to acknowledge his words before turning and striding to the door. "Yes, Professor Snape?" He drawled as he stepped from the room, the usual snark and rotten demeanor seamlessly threaded his tone once more, like they had never slipped out.

Giving herself a shake, she took the opportunity and quietly set a crate beneath the window. _It's going to be locked,_ she warned herself, knowing better than to trust Draco, but too afraid of Snape's hatred for her not to at least try.

_This is a trick! Malfoy's going to come back in with Professor Snape, and I'll be caught red-handed stealing Slytherin House property._

She stepped onto the crate and grasped the latch, forcing down a shocked gasp as it opened beneath her fingers. Pushing the plaque out ahead of her, she deliberately ignored the tiny hint of relief flickering through her. At least now if Snape came in, she'd be guilty of nothing more than having been alone in a dark room with Draco Malfoy. That probably still wouldn't look good, she mused, but at least it didn't resemble some form of criminal mischief.

Hermione gripped her hands into the rim of the window sill and braced a foot against the wall, boosting herself through the narrow opening. She squirmed and wiggled her legs, sliding onto the grass outside on her belly. The window closed almost soundlessly and she spared a minute to catch her breath.

Climbing to her feet, she didn't bother dusting off her clothes, but stooped to retrieve the plaque. After all this, she wasn't about to leave the bloody thing behind.

The adrenaline drained out of her all at once. She was suddenly far too tired to care that she probably looked like a marine who'd just crawled through a minefield. She was certainly too tired to care that she'd probably lost this stupid—and _completely_ mis-named—scavenger hunt. And she was _definitely_ too tired to puzzle over what had just happened with Malfoy.

God willing, she'd _never_ be rested enough to wonder about it at all.


	2. Disparities

**Chapter Two**

Disparities

"Hermione!"

She gave a start, her elbow slipping from edge of the ping-pong table against which she'd been leaning. Blinking rapidly, she looked up.

Again, she'd spaced out. Or at least she knew that was how it seemed. She'd gotten lost in thought staring at the section of the basement wall where Gryffindor Hall distinctly did _not _have a corridor.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Harry sighed, shoulders drooping as he ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair. "Everyone else has called it a night, we should, too."

"Really?" She stood from the bench, barely resisting the urge to give a long stretch. "I'm not tired."

Now she was flat-out lying. She was _exhausted_, but for the past few nights she'd had the most awful time trying to fall asleep. She was starting to dread the entire idea of going to bed.

But it wasn't only at night that she felt troubled. Whenever quiet surrounded her, whenever her thoughts were not already concentrated on something else, she would find her brain tripping back to those few horrible minutes she'd been trapped in Slytherin Hall.

Her harrowing tale of narrowly _avoiding _Snape _and _Malfoy catching her by slipping out a window—after she'd conveniently noticed its broken latch—had won her the game. She felt terrible that Lavender was so obviously distraught over sending her to Slytherin in the first place, but she could hardly tell them what had actually happened.

And she wasn't thinking about the Malfoy-thing—no, no, certainly not that, she refused to think on _that_—but the strange little corridor that shouldn't be there. Then, there was that terrible, muttering voice. A shiver wracked her every time she thought on it, yet she couldn't help herself. She played the moment again and again, trying to understand the thick, growled words.

Unfortunately, all that ever resulted from those ponderings was a bizarre phantom pressure on her hand, forcing her to recall the feel of his shoulder blade beneath her palm as she'd stepped closer to him. The fleeting memory of allowing Malfoy to protect her would flash through her mind right before she drifted off, at last.

As it turned out, repeating the phrase _I will not think about that_ over and over did not actually block the unwanted thoughts from parading around inside one's head.

Harry offered a lopsided frown. "You're not serious. Classes are back in session tomorrow. When you're tired during classes you get in a mood—a foul one. If you are in a foul mood tomorrow, I promise I'll not buy you a single chocolate ever again."

She uttered a gasp, the announcement pulling her from any hint of retrospection to plant her firmly in the present.

He always bought her chocolates! No matter the occasion—Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, Halloween, her birthday—he'd even brought her back a box of fabulous Belgian truffles yesterday, when he'd returned from his trip with Ginny & Ron's family.

Harry giving Hermione chocolates was their _thing_; even Ginny didn't mind. His threat toyed with the very history of their friendship. They'd barely known each other's names when they were eleven and he'd given her that first, silly little heart-shaped candy box, just so she wouldn't be the only girl in class not to receive a Valentine. He knew she still had that box, crushed and re-taped so many times its original shape could no longer be discerned, but she refused to throw it away.

She balled her hands into fists, taking a menacing step toward him. "You wouldn't dare."

Green eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Try me." They were both aware he'd do no such thing—just as they were both aware she'd never strike Harry, Ron, quite probably, but _never _Harry—but who could maintain their bluff longer was what really counted.

She held his gaze for only a moment before slumping; she simply did not have the energy for this tonight. "Alright, fine."

Nodding firmly, he turned and gestured for her to climb the basement steps ahead of him. They entered the common room and continued up the main staircase, but when she turned at the second floor landing to drop a goodnight kiss on his cheek, he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

Her eyebrows shot up, but she remained silent.

"Are you alright? You've seemed . . . _off s_ince I got back."

"I'm—" she stopped short, shaking her head; she couldn't say she was fine, since Harry's question made it obvious that she _wasn't_ fine. "Did you know there's a hallway in Slytherin Hall that isn't in Gryffindor?"

Harry's eyes rolled toward the ceiling, his mouth pinching in thought as he tried to make sense of that. "Um, you're going to have to help me out on this one."

"When we were playing Lavender's game," she explained—she'd told Harry the same story she'd told the girls, but she hadn't really explained _where _she was in the basement when she'd made her escape. "I noticed that Gryffindor Hall and Slytherin Hall are laid out in exactly the same fashion."

He only mirrored her expression from a moment ago, his eyebrows disappearing under his bangs.

"In their basement, there is a hallway in the far right wall, but there isn't one in Gryffindor that matches it."

"I suppose that is a little weird." He shrugged, deciding he was too tired for untangling Hermione's thoughts. "It _is_ Slytherin Hall, and you know what this school's like . . . maybe it was used for black magic rituals."

Hermione's eyes widened and her jaw dropped just a bit.

A mock-evil laugh erupted from Harry's throat and her face fell.

"I hate you," she mumbled.

He gave a genuine chuckle before sighing. "No you don't."

"Fine, I don't, but I'd like to."

"I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just for extra storage, or something. You're sure that's what's bothering you?"

_No_, she wanted to say. She refrained from fidgeting, from biting her lip, from twisting her fingers in the cuffs of her shirt sleeves—from doing any of the dozen things Harry would recognize on the spot as a sign that she was nervous or holding something back.

She wanted to tell him _everything _that happened that night. But he was the only person who hated Malfoy more than she did. She still didn't understand what had gone between her and Draco in that room, but that didn't keep it from feeling like a betrayal of her friendship with Harry.

Perhaps not telling him was a betrayal, too? Yet, she wasn't certain there was even anything to tell. She was confused, and she had a great dislike of situations that confused her.

Answering his shrug with one of her own, she stated simply, "You know how I feel about incongruous things, Harry."

Nodding, he kissed her forehead. "I'm pretty sure you need more sleep than you think."

Hermione held in a frown as she watched him turn and head off to the boys' wing.

The entire building was silent as Hermione crept into her room. Cringing, she changed into her pajamas as quietly as she could and climbed into bed, determinedly squeezing her eyes shut, as though she could will herself to fall asleep.

It helped little to think that classes resumed in the morning. She'd not set a toe outside of Gryffindor Hall since returning with the plaque. There was no guarantee that she'd bump into Malfoy, but on the off-chance she did, she had no idea what she was supposed to do. Was she supposed to carry on as though that had not happened? Perhaps he expected a favor in return?

Huh. Now that it had occurred to her, that would make sense. Maybe he thought he could bully her into writing papers for him. Whatever the case, she couldn't hide in Gryffindor forever, they had several courses together.

For the first time in as long as she could recall, Hermione dreaded the thought of going to class.

She tossed and turned; on occasion she even rolled onto her stomach and mashed her face into her pillow. None of it stopped that growling voice echoing in the back of her head. Was it calling someone? Asking for something? Demanding to be left alone, perhaps?

_I don't know. I've heard it before, but I don't know._ She bit her lip, hard, determinedly pushing_ that_ voice away.

Despite her wondering, she wished she could stop thinking about the whole, upsetting episode. In comparison to recalling that guttural tone roaring dully her ears, the occurrences at Gryffindor Hall seemed positively delightful.

Trying to force away thoughts that tumbled through her head quite without her permission was a very distracting thing, indeed. Sighing, Hermione sat up, unaware of how long she lay there. She kicked her quilt away and pushed her hair out of her face.

Funny, having it straightened was supposed to make it _easier _to control, but that only seemed to facilitate her locks getting in her way.

The bedside clock read 2:30. _Two hours gone, just like that? _This was turning into a terrible habit. She should just lay back down and let sleep take her whenever it finally decided to show up.

But that would only lead to more tossing and turning . . . which would lead right back to thinking about Mal—her terrible night at Slytherin Hall! Yes, horrible, awful memory that it was.

Still, the incongruous corridor _did _bother her, simply not nearly as much as she'd had to make it seem to Harry. But perhaps enough to distract her from the other, far more upsetting, events of that evening.

Glancing toward the door, she listened for a long while to the quiet stillness of the building. With a nod, she set her feet on the floor and padded silently across the room.

The second floor hall was deathly silent as she moved toward the stairwell. Her stomach twisted into a knot, but she felt silly for that, after all, it was hardly as though students weren't allowed to be out of bed after a certain hour. They weren't children.

Hermione gripped the railing, staring into the parlor below as she chewed the inside of her lip. Perhaps the stillness of the Hall at this late hour simply felt unnatural. Or maybe it was only that she was so accustomed to the place being full of noise, and students . . . and varied other signs of _life _in general.

Oh for pity's sake! All the corridor and main Hall lights were on, there was nothing for her to fear. She was just going downstairs to . . . .

Hermione squared her shoulders and nodded to herself. She was just going into the basement to examine that corridor_-less _wall. Harry was right, she told herself, strangely cognizant of each step beneath her feet as she descended to the first floor and crossed the common room.

Of course, he was right. He _had_ to be. The corridor in Slytherin Hall was an aberration. Possibly nothing more than a last minute decision by the architect to provide an extra storeroom. Exactly as Harry suggested.

Only, what if it _wasn't_ an aberration? What if Gryffindor having no such corridor was, in fact, the oddity?

As she reached the entrance of the basement stairwell, a muffled bang sounded overhead. She paused, holding her breath as she listened. After a brief moment, she realized it had been the very familiar slam of a door, and she waited for any accompanying noises. Maybe it was only someone on their way to use the restroom.

But no footsteps, or creaking floorboards followed. No closing of any of the bathroom doors. Hermione's chestnut eyes rolled as she exhaled. Just her luck that it was only the building acting up again.

If she didn't know any better, she might actually think Gryffindor Hall was poking fun at her.

Either way, it made her realize she was being utterly ridiculous. Shaking her head at herself, she continued down into the basement.

She darted across the gaming area, her gaze locked on the smooth expanse of wall beside the Gryffindor display case. Frowning, she reached out with a tentative hand, stopping mere inches from connecting with the wood panels.

Well, now she was just being stupid! Did she imagine the wall would pulse, as though it had a heartbeat, beneath her fingertips? Was she expecting it to spontaneously sprout fangs and bite her?

Steeling her nerves, she slapped herself on the cheek. "C'mon, Hermione," she whispered, hoping the sting would keep her grounded and thinking clearly.

"Alright, okay," she stepped back, eyeing the length of the wall. From memory, she made an approximate measure of where the corridor's entrance was.

She moved a few paces to the right and approached the wall once more. Knocking sharply, she heard only a dull thud in response. One step left, another knock, repeat, until she reached the space where she guessed the entrance would be. Breathing in, and then out again, slowly, Hermione raised her hand and knocked.

In that moment, she realized that she didn't really know _what_ hollow spots should sound like, but this panel sounded different than the other places she'd tried. That _had_ to mean something. Again, she knocked, to be certain the disparity was not her imagination.

Again the response was a strange, flat thudding.

One corner of her mouth twitched as she thought over what to do next. It was hardly as though she could take the panel down. And what would it mean if there _was _a space behind there?

After a moment, she pressed her ear to the wall, raising her hand to knock a third time—and froze. Hermione's skin crawled. It sound like something behind the wall was . . . _moving_.

"Bloody hell," she whispered, disbelief threading her voice.

Pressing her palms to the wall, she shifted, trying to seal her ear against the panel the best she could to hear more clearly.

_Wham!_

A yelp wrenched from Hermione's throat and she jumped back. Wide-eyed, she stared unblinkingly, warmth and sensation draining from her. She shook her head, lips trembling as she tried to make sense of—_wham!_

"Oh, I don't think so," she said breathlessly, spinning on a heel and racing back to the staircase.

She didn't stop running until she was in her room, her back pressed firmly to the closed—and _locked_—door. _Sleep, yes_, she reminded herself sharply, she had to try to get sleep. Once her heart stopped beating so painfully, and mercilessly, against her ribcage.


	3. Psychological Discomfort

***The cadence of Snape's speech is **_**loosely**_** based on Alan Rickman's portrayal of the character.**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Psychological Discomfort

"You were probably sleepwalking or something, and you imagined it," Harry said quietly, his tone reasonable as he opened his text and set his tablet beside it. He'd known since the day they'd met that Hermione had quirks, but staying up all night obsessing about dissimilar floor plans was new.

Hermione only gave a tired eye-roll. She knew she probably shouldn't have said anything, at all, but she had to tell someone, even if only to get some semblance of a grip on the incident.

"I _didn't _imagine it! C'mon, Harry. Is it really so hard to believe with what usually happens around here?"

He frowned, eyes fixed on the screen before him. "That's sort of my point. You wanted there to be some meaning to your 'incongruous corridor' nonsense, and we've all had experiences. I don't see why it _can't_ have been a dream."

Her expression soured, but before she could respond, she glanced toward the door. With what she decided must be the worst timing that had befallen anyone, in any situation, _ever_, she managed to meet Draco Malfoy's gaze as he entered the room.

His pale hair slicked back, he was clad in a black turtleneck and matching, perfectly pressed jeans. Honestly, who had their jeans dry cleaned these days?

Only now, seeing him as his usual, sleek-self, did it register on her how un-Malfoy-like he'd appeared that night in Slytherin Hall's strange little storeroom.

Nothing sleek about him that night, no. He'd worn a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans that had probably seen better days. Though, now that she thought on it, everything in that room had been coated in a film of dust. He probably hadn't wanted to ruin clothes on which mummy and daddy had likely dropped a small fortune. And his hair had been mussed . . . in a way that made her picture him raking his fingers through it over and over in frustration.

_He looked better with his hair mussed_. Hermione barely refrained from kicking herself immediately after those words skittered through her mind. It didn't matter that it was true; it mattered that she shouldn't be thinking about how Draco Malfoy looked_ at all_.

To her surprise, he faltered, simply staring back at her. For only the briefest moment—if she'd not been looking at him, she would have missed it, she was certain of it—before he caught himself. Just as quickly he pulled his gaze from hers, the customary scowl twisting its way across his features.

He always sat in the back with his lackeys, the unfortunately surnamed Vincent Crabb and Gregory Goyle, while Hermione and Harry sat in the front. She refused to so much as look over her shoulder, but somehow, she couldn't shake the feeling that, every so often, Malfoy's eyes were on her. Not only during that first lesson, either, but in each class they shared, it happened much the same way.

There had never been a more ridiculous notion, had there? If he _was_ watching her, he was likely only trying to formulate some way to use what had happened against her.

She ignored him—though, admittedly, she couldn't recall a time in her life when ignorance had required quite so much effort—instead concentrating on her studies, on her discussions with her friends.

Until the last class, psychology, during which she realized she must have done something in a past life to _gravely _offend some deity.

"Over the course of the next several weeks . . ." Professor Snape droned, taking one of his usual, deliberate—and in Hermione's opinion, utterly pointless—pauses, "we will be studying deviant behavior. You will also be learning to work outside of your . . . comfort zone. The papers assigned during this time will be collaborative research projects. All work is expected to be shared . . . equally by _both_ persons. That is to say you will be divided into teams of two."

A few students gathered their things and rose from their seats, moving toward those they wanted to team with, but the professor's snide voice cut through the shuffling sounds filling the room. "Teams have _already_ . . . been selected. Randomly."

Hermione hid a frown, positive Snape had purposefully held that bit of information back. She would not be surprised in the least if he took some warped joy from how embarrassed he'd likely just made the students who'd stood feel.

"When one is comfortable with their assigned partner, they may feel inclined to do more—or _less_—work than I require, based on their knowledge of their friends . . . study habits. That is not how I wish any of you to work. These will be shared assignments, and shared grades. If one of you fails to do his or her part of the work, you . . . _both_ fail. Now sit _down_."

If it were any other professor, groans would have sounded from every corner of the room, but they knew better. One peep and Snape would instantly tack on even more stringent project requirements to whatever he already had in mind.

Hermione shared a glance with Padma Patil, who'd been making her way over, and mouthed an apology. She watched glumly as the other girl sat down, facing the front of the room with a dismal expression.

"Not all of you are going into professions that require a background in psychology. However, you will learn it is not only in this field, but many other, as well, that you will often find yourselves tasked to work alongside those with whom you are utterly unfamiliar. Thus, to become accustomed to working only with people whom you already know may prove . . . a . . . _liability_ in your future."

He rounded his desk, giving the class a moment to absorb his words. Hermione read it from her classmates faces, some of them believed the professor was only trying to suck _any_ joy out of a project for his class that might be fun. No assignment from Snape was _ever_ supposed to be fun! But she understood, however reluctantly, that the purpose of the assignment was to acclimate them to performing under pressure, despite social anxieties, or psychological discomfort.

She wasn't going to dwell on the fact that understanding Professor Snape was a thing that caused her a great deal of psychological discomfort, all on its own.

Sweeping back the sides of his black suit jacket, he sat. She would swear his every move was calculated as he made a show of cracking open a leather-bound notebook. Oh, no, nothing as simple and _new-fangled_ as a tablet or laptop for Professor Snape. The simplicity and convenience of such things might actually make him seem a tad human.

"Teams are as follows: Padma Patil and Millicent Bulstrode. Gregory Goyle and Susan Bones. Pansy Parkinson and Seamus Finnigan. Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger—"

Hermione lost her ability to comprehend the words falling from Snape's lips after that. She didn't want to move, didn't want to look up; didn't want to give _any_ indication that she understood what she'd just heard.

This was so stupid! If this had happened before break, the most she would have done was groan about her misfortune and angrily stomp her feet as she crossed the room.

But now . . .

Now she was trapped in a very peculiar place, between frozen in her seat and bolting from the room. Perhaps her problem was that she simply didn't know what his motive was for helping her—since she was relatively certain Draco Malfoy did not have the word _help_ in his vocabulary.

She took a breath, allowing herself a moment to roll that thought around in her head. Yes, that made sense. The only thing to do was act as though nothing at all had happened, because—really—nothing had.

People were shuffling and shifting around her as they moved to sit next to their assigned partners, and she realized she should follow suit. After all, she very much doubted Draco would come to her.

Oy, was _that_ a bizarrely worded notion.

With numb fingers, she collected her tablet and books. As she rose from her seat, she looked across the room to find Malfoy staring at her. She was trying to behave normally, why did he have to be unsettling?

At least this time he was scowling. For once, she considered his unpleasant expression a welcome thing. A scowling, ill-tempered Draco Malfoy she could handle any day of the week; she'd been doing so since they were children. But if he looked at her without a foul expression marring his features—like he had in those brief seconds that night in that odd little storeroom—well, she simply didn't know how to respond.

"C'mon, Granger, we haven't got all day," he said shortly, making her aware that she was dragging her feet.

Ah, scowling _and_ cranky. Okay, she could work with this.

"I didn't see you moving. You could have come to me, you know," she pointed out as she took the seat beside him, deliberately echoing her thought from a few moments ago.

Hmm, those words _did_ sound just as bizarre aloud as they had in her head. Perhaps she'd only repeated them in the hope that it might throw him off a bit and render him silent for a time.

He leaned to one side, draping an arm over the back of his chair as his eyebrows inched up his forehead. "Could I, now?"

Hermione held his gaze, uncertain of what to make of his posture, of the tone of his voice as he asked that. But, no sooner had she started to wonder about his meaning, then did a cruel smirk curve his lips.

She rolled her eyes and faced the front of the room. "Do you practice being such a prat, or does it come naturally?"

Draco pressed a hand over his heart, offering a mock wounded expression.

Snape came around his desk and set a manila folder down in front of Padma. "This will be passed around. One person from each team will select a page—without . . . looking—and pass the folder along. Much like your research partner, the subjects of this first assignment have been preselected and . . . will be chosen at random."

Seamus held the folder out to them, but Draco only looked at it. Clenching her teeth, Hermione grabbed the folder, uncertain how she kept in check the sore temptation to smack Malfoy with it.

Honestly, what had she been so worried about? He was an ass, and she was irritated simply being near him. Clearly _nothing_ had changed.

She extracted a page and handed the folder off to the person beside her; she was too focused on _not_ minding Draco to really pay attention to who else was where. If _he_ chose not to do any work, _she_ would fail. Fantastic. Shaking her head in disappointment—there went her perfect grade point average—Hermione read the name on the paper in her hand.

And gasped. Loudly.

Brow furrowing, Draco sat forward, bumping against Hermione as he read the words over her shoulder.

His hand shot up instantly, but he did not wait for Snape to acknowledge him. "Professor! What exactly is our assignment?"

Snape didn't look up from whatever he was writing in his book. "As I said, Mr. Malfoy, we are studying deviant behavior. On each of those papers is the name of a famous murderer, and each case has one . . . thing in common. Solved, or unsolved, a motive . . . was never learned."

Hermione felt a chill, folding in on herself as she tried to ignore the warmth of Draco's chest so very close behind her. She turned her head quickly, catching his gaze for only the briefest moment before they both faced forward again, staring down at the name before them.

"With rare exception, none of their crimes were random acts of violence, or crimes of passion. Each of their actions was planned, methodical . . . thought-out. Based on case studies, psychological evaluations, witness testimony, any and all valid, credible materials you can gather, you are to formulate motives for the crimes."

"Serial Killers don't need motives," Hermione said, her voice hollow.

Her eyes locked on the sheet, she didn't notice the quick, sidelong glance Draco gave her.

"Miss Granger, while that may be true . . . serial killers, by the very nature of their psychosis, _believe_ they have a reason for the crimes they commit; that their actions serve some purpose, however imaginary. It is your task, based on available evidence to discern . . . why they believed such actions were necessary."

The professor finally looked up, eyeing each team in turn before going on. "This assignment is to be completed in two weeks. You are . . . dismissed."

Hermione wanted to jump out of her seat and run, and leave the paper far behind her. But she couldn't will herself to budge. And it seemed that Malfoy—still so close his breath tickled the side of her throat—couldn't, either.

"Psst, Hermione."

Giving herself a shake, Hermione looked up from the page, meeting Padma's dark eyes.

"We got Jack the Ripper! Can you believe it? Who do you have?"

Hermione forced a gulp down her throat, unable to share Padma's excited for the assignment. Who _didn't_ want to do a psych eval on Jack the Ripper? It was an odd comfort to realize that Draco, as well, seemed unnerved by their unfortunate subject.

"See for yourself," Malfoy said, his usual smugness only a shadow buried beneath his uncharacteristically dull tone. He slid the paper from Hermione's still fingers and held it up for Padma and Millicent to read.

The smiles faded from both girls faces instantly. "Oh God," Millicent nearly shouted, stepping back as though the name would burst to life and attack her.

Padma's gaze flicked from Hermione's to Draco's and back. "I'm sorry." She folded her arms around herself, as though she sensed the same chill Hermione had felt upon first reading the name.

Hermione bit deep into her lower lip, finally peeling herself from her seat—and, thankfully, away from Draco, who instantly regained the ability to scowl—and carelessly began cramming her things into her messenger bag. By the time she looked up, Padma and Millicent were gone, not that she was surprised.

What _did_ surprise her was that she found Malfoy shuffling the paper into his own bag. "No reason you should have to take it, Granger." He didn't look at her as he stood and turned to leave.

She felt strangely as though he was protecting her once more. He was almost out the door when she snapped back to her senses.

"Wait," she called, irritated with him all over again. "Shouldn't we plan out a research schedule?"

When he glanced over his shoulder at her, he wore his usual sour expression. "I'm sure we'll figure something out." And then he, too, was gone.

Even Snape had vanished, leaving her alone in the classroom. Hermione's eyes drifted closed for a long moment. Opening them slowly, she forced out a breath and headed for the exit.

Why, of _all_ the names that could have been on that assignment sheet, did she have to get Tom Riddle?


	4. Uncertain Tensions

**Chapter Four**

Uncertain Tensions

There'd been no shortage of sympathetic looks from her friends when Hermione told them who she'd been paired with, she simply hadn't told them who they were studying. She couldn't bring herself to say the name in Harry's presence.

He'd hear about it sooner or later, she was certain, but she simply could not bear to watch the flood of emotions that would play across his face as she explained that she had to provide a reason for the man who'd murdered his mother and father. Tom Riddle was a blood-soaked beast masquerading as a man. For a time_, all _their parents lived in fear of even speaking his name before he'd made the mistake of choosing Lily Potter as his next victim.

Hermione knew that she would simply have to do her best to not think about poor Harry as she delved into the gory details of Riddle's kills. She knew what the young man hated, more than anything in the world, was when anyone considered him as _Poor Harry._

She _refused_ to return to Slytherin Hall to work on the research project. Draco gave no indication that he knew why entering that building would upset her; she didn't know if she should be relieved or worried. When she began to suggest meeting at Gryffindor, his expression withered so sharply that the words died on her lips halfway through the statement.

So in the quad they sat, folders of printed out case documents, several books detailing accounts of true crimes, and psychology texts from as many varied sources as she could get her hands on open around them. Well, more accurately, around _her. _She was making careful notation of the materials they would be using while Malfoy . . . .

Malfoy lay on his back, in the grass, tossing a wadded up paper into the air.

After watching him for a few moments, Hermione set down her pad and pen with a long-suffering sigh. "This project is supposed to be a team effort."

Blue eyes rolled, but he only went on tossing his stupid paper ball. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She pursed her lips, nostrils flaring before she reminded herself to take a breath. Decking Malfoy this soon into their first assignment—oh God, and she was stuck with him for the next _several_ weeks, if she'd understood Snape's meaning—would only hamper their progress.

"Professor Snape said—"

"I'm well aware what Snape said, Granger." His lazy drawl slid out bored, cold, even a hint irritated.

"I knew it. You're going to make me do all the work by myself and lie to Snape about it, aren't you?"

Catching the ball one final time, Draco furrowed his brow. He rolled onto his side to face her, propping himself up on an elbow. "What exactly are you going on about?"

Hermione shook her head as she began stuffing into her bag as many of the books as it could hold. "I've been trying to wrap my head around what happened that night. You could have let Professor Snape catch me, but you didn't and I kept asking myself _why_?" Oh, bloody hell, the files wouldn't fit! Oh well, she'd just have to carry them in her arms and hope she didn't trip. "I thought you were going to try to get something like this from me."

She stood, struggling to pull the strap of her bag over her shoulder with her arms weighted down by folders. "I _will_ do my share of the work, whether you do yours or not, but I will _not_ cover for you. I don't care what you tell Snape. I would rather fail honestly than pass by lying."

Draco merely looked up at her, resting his chin against his fist. "Are you finished?"

"Quite," she said through clenched teeth.

"I had no intention of not doing my share, or making you lie. You'll excuse me if I'm angry with Snape for putting us together."

"That makes two of us."

He flashed his trademark scowl. "Mostly because he claimed the selection process was random. I believe he was lying. I believe he deliberately paired us because he knows we can't stand each other."

Not that the notion hadn't cross her mind, she simply hadn't indulged it—she didn't want to consider that a teacher would stoop so low. "You think he _wants_ us to fail?"

"Oh, no. I think it's part of some warped experiment he's performing. Testing if we value academic achievement over pride, or some such nonsense."

In an instant, Hermione realized that made a twisted kind of sense._ Especially_ for a vaguely-creepy weirdo like Professor Snape.

"However, as to what I want in return for not letting Snape catch you . . . ." He gave that smarmy grin that made her want to kick him. Hard. Right in the bollocks. "I hadn't actually given that any thought. Huh, I suppose now I'll _have_ to think of something."

"I really do loathe you, Draco Malfoy," she said in an icy whisper as he rolled onto his back, as he'd been before.

He only shrugged as he folded his hands behind his head. "Weren't you in the middle of some huffy, dramatic exit?"

Hermione's responding eye-roll was so purposefully exaggerated her eyelids fluttered.

She ignored that as he'd stretched his arms back, the hem of his shirt had tugged upward, just a little, exposing a hint of skin on his lower abdomen. No, no, she did _not_ catch a glimpse of that dusting of pale gold hair glinting in the sunlight.

And she _certainly_ hadn't noticed how that glittery trail disappeared beneath the low-slung waist band of his jeans.

She bit her lip, trying to recall if she'd received some sort of head trauma recently.

"Whatever. We'll just . . . pick this up tomorrow after classes, then. I think I've had my fill of you for one day, anyway."

Only after she'd turned away and taken a step did he realize that she wasn't quite flustered enough for his tastes. "Oh, and Granger?"

She paused, but didn't turn to look at him.

"Nice skirt."

Heat flooded her face. The _one_ day she chose to wear one of those stupid pleated mini-skirts! She was glad she didn't have her arms free, or she'd have reflexively reached around just now and held her skirt against the backs of her thighs as she walked away. She refused to give Malfoy the satisfaction of such a sight.

As far as she was concerned, he'd _already_ caught a rather satisfying sight— clearly, whatever bout of temporary insanity she was experiencing was affecting him, too—she would not add to that by letting him see how much he irked her. She did not even grace him with a disapproving shake of her head.

Draco let a chuckle slip out as he watched her stomp off toward Gryffindor Hall.

Hermione stared so hard she was surprised his perfect platinum hair didn't burst into flames. Their _tomorrow_ research session came and went with much the same bothersome, contentious, mildly-sanity-questioning, lack of progress as the first day.

Hours had passed since, but she couldn't quite seem to think around her irritation at his impossibly asinine behavior. With the exception of occasionally swatting her friends on the arm for saying or doing idiotic things, Hermione Granger was not usually a violent person.

Spending time around Malfoy, however, had her so wound up she felt she could go a few rounds in a boxing ring.

"Now there is a terrifying look," Lavender said quietly, for a moment actually fearful of Hermione, as she squeezed in between Ron and Neville at their usual table in the campus coffee shop.

Harry took a long sip of his iced tea before speaking. "You'd probably have that same look if your grade hinged on someone like Malfoy."

Shaking her head, Hermione downed the last of her cappuccino and slammed the mug against its saucer.

"Careful," Neville warned, reaching out to tip the cup away from the plate to check for cracks. "We understand you're upset, but don't take it out on innocent dishware."

After a moment she looked around the table at her friends and forced a smile. "Sorry. Hey, I've been thinking—what am I supposed to do with that stupid plaque? Someone's bound to notice it missing eventually, and we can't very well have anyone find it in Gryffindor."

"Drop it on their doorstep and run," Ron said with a shrug, speaking around a mouthful of chocolate pudding.

Lavender and Hermione exchanged a mildly disgusted glance. This was the boy they'd once fought over? Harry caught the girls' expressions and held back a laugh.

Hermione sighed, pushing her hair behind her ear and resting her cheek against her palm. "Yeah, great, but what if someone sees me?"

"Dash into the Hall and pop out a side window," Harry offered, deadpan. "It worked last time."

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. "Prat."

Lavender—still relieved, days later, that even though her plan had backfired, no one had realized her attempt at setting up Hermione—shrugged as she uncapped her water bottle. "Do it during the night, _late_. After most everyone's gone to bed; then you'd really only have to worry about keeping an eye out for campus security."

There was no curfew, but Rowling students _did_ follow a basic code of conduct when classes loomed the next morning. Avoiding security wouldn't be difficult, Hermione realized.

Mr. Filch was a cranky old hard ass, but common consensus of both faculty and students was that the old man was half-mad. If he spotted her, but she ducked out of sight fast enough, he might convince himself he was imagining things. And Mr. Hagrid? Well, certainly, the lumbering man _looked_ frightening, but he was sweet, and kind of a pushover. All she'd need to say was that she couldn't sleep, so she was taking a—admittedly unwise—late-night stroll, alone.

Groaning as she rolled her eyes, Hermione nodded. "You're right. Damn."

Lavender sipped her water, hiding a frown behind the bottle. She couldn't alert security that someone would be poking around Slytherin Hall; after all, this was her suggestion. If events unfolded the way she hinted they might, that would appear suspicious.

She'd think of something, she was sure. Just once, just one thing she wanted to get on Hermione, then she'd consider them even and, hopefully, be able to let go of her animosity.

Lavender's gaze flicked across the shop just in time—half a second later and she would have missed it—to catch Draco Malfoy eyeing Hermione. As quickly as she caught the glance, he looked away again, wearing a haughty expression as he laughed at some conversation between Pansy and Blaise Zabini.

How sad it was, she thought, that he might be handsome if he didn't always make such ugly faces.

"When did I become such an idiot?"

Hermione drew a breath and let it out slowly as she slid out the door of Gryffindor Hall. The plaque was hidden under her sweatshirt as she crept down the stairs.

As her feet hit the ground, it occurred to her how ridiculous she was being. Again, with the stealthy moves and the hiding from no one; the faster she moved, the faster this would be over.

Nodding, she wrapped her arms around herself—around the plaque—and cut across the quad at a brisk pace.

Everything was so quiet that her footsteps rustling through the grass echoed in her ears, seeming louder than she'd ever imagined possible. She couldn't help thinking back to the last time she'd snuck over to Slytherin Hall.

Finally she'd managed to put that voice, that unnatural chill in the air that had seeped into her bones quicker than a heartbeat, out of her mind. And now those memories came roaring back.

She wasn't surprised to feel the tingling press of eyes on her—though, this time, she was inclined to believe her imagination was the culprit, not some wandering specter she simply couldn't see. Attempting to assuage her fear, Hermione glanced over her shoulder . . . .

And stopped dead in her tracks, biting back a scream.

Peeking out from behind of the street lamps, she saw a face, yet she couldn't make out anything beyond the vague impression of features. Solid, inky-black, but somehow the eye sockets were darker than the rest. Like staring into bottomless pits.

Suddenly the image collapsed in on itself, vanishing from sight.

Forcing out a trembling breath, she turned back toward Slytherin Hall and bolted.

By the time she reached the steps, she was certain she no longer felt anything watching her. She was also certain she wouldn't be able to run another step if her life depended on it. Her nerves were shot, she still wasn't sleeping well, and she had been investing far too much energy into pretending she didn't notice things that were sticking in her brain no matter how she tried to banish them.

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. _That was simply . . . simply one of those Rowling things_, even the voice in her head was shaky.

It was more terrifying than comforting to consider that the sighting had no real meaning. Whatever that was, it was likely always about, there'd just never been anyone around at the right time of night to see it. Honestly, she'd wanted to _see_ something, and when that finally happened, she darted away like rabbit. Nerves of steel, she had.

"Okay," she whispered, drawing a deep, calming breath only to realize . . . she didn't want to climb these steps.

She didn't want to walk up to the front door of Slytherin Hall. If anyone saw her doing that, how would she explain it?

Glancing around briefly to assure herself no one else was about—and praying she didn't see any more bodiless, shadowy faces— she walked around the side of the building to the window with the broken latch. It didn't really matter where the plaque was found did it?

Not as long as it wasn't in Gryffindor Hall.

She stooped down beside the window and delicately pushed it open. The room was dark, but she could make out that same stack of old newspapers Malfoy had been looking over that night.

Briefly she wondered if those papers had been there all along and so he'd simply left them there, or if she'd interrupted him from something and he hadn't gotten back to it. She wanted to wonder just what he'd been doing down here in the first place, but that was just her curiosity rearing its troublesome head, she didn't _really_ care.

The stack of papers made for as good a landing place as she could hope for, and she eased the plaque out from beneath her sweatshirt with her free hand and—

"What are you doing, Granger?"

She jumped to her feet and spun around so fast she made herself dizzy for a quick moment. Her free hand splayed in front of her while she clutched the plague to her chest with the other, she caught her bearings as she waited for her heartbeat to slow and sensation to flood back into her body.

Malfoy stood at the back door clad in black silk pajamas and looking a tad disheveled.

"Malfoy, you bastard! You scared me half-to-death," she whispered, her tone harsh as she walked up to him.

"At least I'm _supposed_ to be here. What are you, pilfering again?"

"No, I was bringing the stupid thing back, actually." She held it out to him, but he didn't take it, merely looking at it for a moment as she went on. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, in your bed dreaming about impaling your enemies on giant spikes, or something?"

"I saw you out the window. Be grateful you're not embarking on a life of crime—you'd make the world's most awful cat burglar." He tacked on in a low voice, "I don't sleep much lately, anyway."

Now she understood, his less-than-sleek appearance at the moment wasn't from disrupted sleep, but from tossing and turning in the attempt to sleep. She understood the feeling that went with that look all too well, recently.

"Me, neither, not since . . . ." she let her voice trail off as she looked back toward the window before meeting his gaze again, still holding the plaque. "Well, I'll just be going, then. Do try not to be a prat tomorrow; we have to get some work done, eventually."

"I've been giving thought to what you said. And I've decided that you're _absolutely_ right, I should use this against you." His tone and his expression were both as serious as Hermione'd ever witnessed.

She shook her head, giving a short, mirthless laugh. "Too late, I've already returned it." Dropping the plaque on the ground beside his feet, Hermione turned and started away.

Draco's hand caught her wrist and he spun her back to face him. The last thing she expected to feel was his mouth crashing down over hers. The fingers of his other hand slid around her neck to cup the back of her head.

She didn't know what possessed her, but rather than pulling away, she opened to him, uttering a tiny whimper as his tongue darted between her lips. She nipped at it, flicked and caressed it with her own.

When she felt herself drifting forward, felt her body trying to press against his of its own volition, she realized what was happening and tore her mouth from his.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded as she gulped down air.

Draco smirked in that irritating, superior way that dug under her skin as he, too, caught his breath. "I'm sorry, was that not a clear action? Do you need me to do it again?"

"No! No, why would you kiss me?"

"Why would you kiss me back?" He asked pointedly as he folded his arms across his chest.

"I—I . . . ." She really had no decent response for that, now did she? "I asked you first! You should not have done that."

His brow inched upward as he shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because we hate each other," she said, blinking rapidly.

"Hating you doesn't mean I can't be curious."

Hermione felt her eyes widen. "Curious about _what_?"

Smirking, he leaned closer, but for some reason, she found that she couldn't move away as he angled his head, placing his face so very close to hers. His warm breath ghosting over her ear, he whispered, "About what you taste like."

She forced out a short breath, ignoring the giddiness in the pit of her stomach and the heat washing across her skin.

He pulled back, the bridge of his nose crinkling as he met her gaze. "Pleasant dreams, Granger."

Clenching her teeth and balling her hands into fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms, she turned on a heel and began walking away, her head held high.

"I answered your question, but you didn't answer mine."

She froze, her shoulders bunching at the reminder.

"Why did you kiss me back?"

For a reason she couldn't quite name, Hermione turned to look at him. "Because," her voice came out weak, and she shook her head before trying again, feeling strangely vulnerable. "Because it felt nice."

Expressionless, Draco merely held her gaze until she once more turned from him. He watched her as she walked away and disappeared around the corner of the building.

What the hell had he just done?


	5. Hidden Details

**Chapter Five**

Hidden Details

Paying attention to her professors had never before been such a test of her ability to willfully ignore the world around her. But, willful ignorance was the only way she made it through classes the following day. Each lesson she shared with Draco, she watched the door like a hawk, forcibly dropping her gaze to her text the moment the first strand of platinum hair appeared.

She could feel his eyes on her—very briefly when he would enter the room, and then off-and-on throughout the lesson. It took extraordinary effort on her part not to glance over her shoulder at him. She was distinctly aware of when he was looking at her, of the very second he peeled his gaze from her.

_Then _there was psychology. Since the start of their new assignment two days ago—bloody hell, had it only been two days—Snape insisted his students sit with their partners in class. She caught herself before entering the room. He was in there already, she knew, as she'd turned down the corridor she'd spotted a head of pale-gold hair disappearing through the door.

Taking a breath, Hermione forced a nod and steeled herself. "Just remember you hate him," she whispered, with a second nod, and finally stepped into the room.

Thankfully, as she crossed the tile floor, she found Malfoy's head was tipped downward, his gaze on a book open in front of him. Relaxing a bit—but only a very, tiny, bit— she continued to her seat, praying she'd be settled before he even noticed she was there.

Blue eyes flicked up, catching hers as she dropped her bag on her desk. For a painfully stretched moment, all he did was stare at her.

And all she could manage was to stare back.

Hermione wanted to crawl under the heaviest, most impossibly large rock in the world as a blush crept into her cheeks.

_Hating you doesn't mean I can't be curious._

Her lips tingled, parting just a hint. For a split-second, she swore she felt the brush of his warm breath over her throat again. The memory of his words sent a little rippling pulse through her . . . as though he'd done more than merely kiss her.

_About what you taste like._

Did Draco Malfoy mean he wanted to—

He blinked, giving a barely perceptible shake of his head as he let out a breath, snapping her out of her thoughts. Just like that, his scowl fixed over his features, and time rushed back into step around them.

"Running a bit behind today, Granger? Too busy skulking outside windows, again?"

Rolling her eyes, she slid into her seat and opened her text before her. "Sorry, I was dragging my feet. Couldn't decide between sitting beside you, or slamming my hand in the door so I could spend class in the infirmary."

"Tough call, I can see. Whatever did sway you?"

She met his gaze, mirroring his scowl. "This option was only _slightly _less painful."

His expression lightened ever so faintly, his mouth quirking up at the corners—if she didn't know any better, she'd swear her answer amused him. All that really mattered was that they were back to sniping at each other, as though last night never happened. As it should be.

Except they were still glaring at each other, utterly oblivious to their surroundings.

"Are you two . . . finished?" Snape's voice was cold as it cut across the room.

Frowning darkly, Hermione dropped her gaze to her text as Malfoy leaned back in his seat, his posture what might be the regal form of a slouch. "Yes, professor," they muttered in—unfortunate—unison.

Somehow, they made it through that last, dreadful, terrible, dragging lesson without paying too much mind to one another. Though, neither of them could ever recall a time in their lives when they'd been so acutely aware of the physical closeness of another human being.

After they were dismissed, Hermione trooped behind Malfoy to the same spot in the quad where they'd sat yesterday, and the day before. Yesterday . . . when she'd disregarded his irritated protests and stuffed half the research materials into his bag, herself.

Yesterday, before Malfoy had gone and made everything weird.

Today was different. In fact, it seemed giving him something he wished to avoid thinking about sharpened Draco's focus. Without a word, he sat on the ground, opened his bag, dragged out everything of importance to their research and began jotting down notes.

She decided to follow his lead, pulling one of the true crime books into her lap before digging her pen and pad out of her bag. Bending her head to the words before her, she dutifully began cataloging pertinent details about the case.

_No evident motive._

Details her generation had only learned years later, when everyone thought they could handle the stories.

_Age range of the victims 21 to 30 years. How their ages fit into Riddle's process of selecting his victims is unknown._

Details their parents had all done _everything_ in their power to conceal from them.

_Riddle targeted women with whom he'd had no previous contact, of whom he had no apparent prior knowledge. One male victim of Riddle's bloodbath seems to have been a crime of convenience._

She bit deep into her lip, blinking back the instant burning ping of tears in the corners of her eyes. _Harry's father._

Dates, locations, statements from the victim's families, there seemed so much information here, and yet, this was barely half of what had really happened. The Evans family refused interviews, or publicity of any sort. They'd gone so far as to move away, virtually disappearing after Lily's murder.

_Lily Evans . . . . _Trembling fingertips brushed across the name on the page.

Lily Potter's maiden name had been given to the public to spare her child from the press; his father's name had been completely withheld for the same reason. Only family, friends, and officials involved in the direct handling of the case knew enough to echo the _Poor Harry _sentiment her best friend so hated.

Shaking her head, she schooled her features and continued making notations.

Hermione turned the page, scanning the next topic. And had to force down a sudden wave of nausea. She'd known what she might find; she'd known Riddle's kills . . . . that he'd cut out their hearts and drain their bodies of blood.

What threw her stomach into revolt was the speculation as to what he did with them. Investigators never located any trace of the _souvenirs _he took from his victims. The prevailing theory, therefore . . . was that he _ingested _them.

_Jack the Ripper meets Dracula_, she thought, except that unlike the Ripper's victims, Riddle's were all reputedly good people; decent, upstanding . . . by most accounts, women who'd never done anything wrong a day in their lives. It was sick to consider that _that _might be the connection between his victims. Their decency might have been the thing that drew him.

For one, terrible, disorienting moment, Hermione thought she could hear it all. Her skin crawled with pleading screams that slowly grew weaker, the sickening squelch of his blade plunging into their flesh, the grating crack of their ribs breaking so that he might reach his _prize, _echoed dully inside her skull.

She slammed the book closed, pushing it out of her lap as though cover burned.

Draco's head snapped up from his reading. "Did it bite you?" His gaze darted from hers to the offending book and back.

"I just . . . I think I need a break," she whispered, forcing a gulp down her throat.

Frowning, he pulled his smartphone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows lifted as he said, "I suppose we've been at this long enough for one day."

Blinking a few times in rapid succession, she watched as he closed books and folders and began packing things away.

"How long were we working?"

He met her gaze sharply and his lips quirked to one side, as though she'd just spouted an alien language. "You're joking."

Hermione glanced around the courtyard, her mouth falling open a little. She'd been so absorbed in the book, she hadn't noticed that the sun was setting. _It's been hours? _Perhaps it wasn't the reading, itself, that had her distracted, but her constant mental prattling and pauses due to her knowledge of Harry's connection to the terrible information in front of them.

"Right, okay," she said blankly, shaking her head as she went about gathering up her share of the research materials.

When she had nothing more to say—no witty barb about how time flew when he wasn't talking, no false show of surprise that he didn't have a servant who did his homework for him—Draco knew something was off.

He shot a hand out, dragging her bag over to him.

"Hey!"

Ignoring her protests—just as she'd ignored his when she'd weighted him down with half this rubbish—he rifled through the bag's contents to pull out her notepad. He flipped it open and scanned the last line she'd written.

"He . . . _ate _their hearts?" His face puckered in disgust.

"You didn't come across that?" she asked, a bit surprised, since they were bound to read overlapping information at some point.

Draco shook his head, replacing the pad and pushing the bag back toward her. "I was going through Riddle's personal history."

Hermione latched onto that, used it to push the unsavory images from her mind. He obviously believed the gruesome speculation was what upset her, and she was going to let him believe that. "Anything useful there?"

"Not so far," he said, frowning.

"Which means what? One day he just _decided _to become a methodical psychopath?"

"_I _don't know," he snapped, disliking her tone; as though it was his fault they'd found nothing helpful as of yet. "According to basically everyone he'd ever met, there seemed nothing about him that suggests he was capable of this. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, during the autumn of—" In a split-second, his expression went from irritated to mystified.

"What is it?"

He shook his head, his gaze raking over the grass as he thought something through. "I don't know, it's probably got nothing to do with it, but Riddle was killed in autumn, and in the winter of that same year, eleven of his former classmates committed suicide."

Hermione's eyes widened, her jaw going slack. "What? How do you know that?"

"I came across it while looking for something else entirely."

_Raking his fingers through his hair in frustration . . . . _"It was when I found you in that storeroom, wasn't it?"

Finally, he looked at her, nodding, but wouldn't say what he'd _actually _been searching for.

She only rolled her eyes. Of course he wasn't going to tell her whatever he'd been doing; he probably didn't consider her worthy of the information. Spoiled legacy brat strikes again. But maybe that wasn't fair—she didn't consider him worthy of knowing about Harry's family history.

No, it was entirely fair; Harry's secret was different. And Malfoy _was_ just a spoiled legacy brat.

She supposed, though, if the periodicals in the Slytherin Hall basement might tell them something then he should go through them. It wasn't as though she was about to . . . . _Dammit, _she wanted to kick herself as her train of thought derailed.

"The basement," she murmured, jumping to her feet and starting off toward Gryffindor.

Confused, Draco glanced around for a moment before he stood and moved to follow her. "Granger?"

"Malfoy?"

"What you doing?"

"I just thought about something, and I need to check it out, _now_, before I get distracted from it again," she said quickly, the words running into one another to match her rushed pace.

"You realize you just spoke _complete _gibberish."

Of course! She was so stupid. After that night in the storeroom, Draco Malfoy—admittedly it set her teeth on edge to think it—was likely the only one who'd take her seriously about the noises behind the wall.

She stopped in her tracks, and was met with the unfortunate sensation of their bodies colliding as he nearly tripped over her.

He immediately backpedaled, speaking through clenched teeth. "Dammit, Granger."

"Sorry," she said as she turned to face him.

Strangely, her apology was genuine, but only because she still didn't know how to react to him being so very near. Not when she imagined she could feel the press of him against her back, despite how fast he'd stepped away; not when his low, angry tone just now reminded her of how his voice had sounded last night when he'd whispered in her ear.

"That night in the storeroom," she began, powering on through whatever new bout of Malfoy-centric temporary insanity she was experiencing, "you_ heard_ that voice. You _felt_ the way the air changed."

His expression pinched as his eyes rolled skyward. "You know I did," he said tightly.

"What if I told you there _should_ be a room identical to that one in Gryffindor Hall, but there isn't, and . . . ." She trailed off, thinking out her words before continuing, "And I've heard sounds coming from _behind_ the wall where the room should be?"

To her surprise, he followed her meaning. "So, you think a room was sealed up?"

"Exactly." She pivoted on a heel and started off toward Gryffindor Hall, once more.

"How do you know what you heard wasn't rats?"

"Funny, I thought that when I found you digging through old newspapers."

"Hmph."

Hermione could just _feel_ him scowling as he trailed behind her. She was surprised he hadn't stalked off, already.

"You realize this has nothing to do with our assignment."

"Well, of course not. But what if it has something to do with that voice we heard?"

She distinctly heard his steps come to an abrupt halt as she slowed her pace. Perhaps she should take some odd comfort in noticing that he was just as put off as she was by their impact a few short minutes ago. As they reached Gryffindor Hall, she changed direction, going around the side of the building instead of to the front door.

He watched with one dark brow arched as she did a funny little counting-in-the-air movement with her finger, pointing toward the base of the building. "So?"

"So," she echoed, glancing at him over her shoulder. "What if there's a connection between the noises I heard from here, and the noises we heard that night? Don't you want to know what that was about? Don't you want to know what that thing was saying?"

He barked a short, utterly humorless chuckle. "No, not really."

She turned back to her counting and, after a moment, nodded and stepped closer to the wall. Lowering herself to her knees slowly, Hermione began brushing her fingers along the bricks.

If they'd gotten here a little earlier she might have had better lighting for this inspection.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, if there is a room here, like in Slytherin, then this is about where that window with the broken latch would be. And there's clearly _not_ a window here, I'm checking to see if one was bricked up."

Shaking his head—really, why hadn't he walked away to leave this mad woman to her flights of imagination—he dug his phone from his pocket and knelt behind her. Flicking on the flashlight app, he angled the beam at the wall under her hand.

"Thank you."

He said nothing, only vaguely surprised she'd not thought to do so, herself.

"But honestly. You've heard that whatever it was before, and you're not the least bit curious?"

When he still didn't reply, she once again looked at him over her shoulder.

Catching her gaze, he said simply, "Curiosity makes people do stupid things, Granger."

She didn't know what to make of that statement. Was she to be insulted that he thought kissing her was stupid? Or should she feel relieved, because if he acknowledged that it was a stupid thing to do, perhaps he'd never try something so _stupid_ again.

And oh bloody hell, was his face close to hers. Biting the inside of her lip, she determinedly faced the wall and went back to inspecting the brickwork. She did _not_ feel his breath on her skin a moment ago, just like she did _not_ sense the warmth of him close at her back right now.

"Oh my God, look," she scooted to one side and ran her fingers in a rectangle around a section of the stones. They were discolored, but only off by a little—as though an attempt at matching was made, and this was the best that could be done.

Tipping his head to one side, Draco pulled back a bit, shining the light around to follow her fingers. Certainly, the shape and size fit with the other basement windows of the Halls.

"You see it, too?" Hermione whispered.

He nodded, a cold, sick feeling twisting in the pit of his stomach. Rowling had its secrets, everyone knew that, but now, rather against his will, and his own better judgment, he was starting to wonder just which of those secrets they were toying with.

"Someone definitely hid a window."

She sat down, turning to face him fully, as though holding herself up any more than that had become a burden. Her skin iced over, the very distinct memory of hearing something _inside_ that room—shuffling about, banging on the wall when she'd leaned in to listen—suddenly fresh in her mind.

"Someone definitely hid an entire _room_," she murmured, unreasonably glad that she'd not made this discovery alone.

Even if the person stuck sharing this unnerving moment with her _was _Draco Malfoy.


	6. Unfortunate Discoveries

**Chapter Six**

Unfortunate Discoveries

"I can't wait 'til you're both here with us next year," Hermione said as she fought a yawn, tucked into an over-stuffed sofa between Ginny and Luna Lovegood—Neville's girlfriend—in a corner of the coffee shop.

Ginny arched one perfect ginger eyebrow and laughed. "Oh, yes, we can tell you're absolutely thrilled by the idea."

Luna hid a pixie-ish giggle behind her hand before adding in her typical, soft-spoken manner as Neville settled on the arm of sofa behind her, "You do seem a bit not yourself."

"She's running on fumes, is why. C'mon, you know Hermione," Harry said lightly, taking a seat on the ottoman and scooting it closer to Ginny to hand her a cup of herbal tea. "Why waste time on sleep when you could be studying?"

Hermione only smirked, shaking her head. Surrounded by her friends—even Lavender and Ron were about, occupying a pair of plush arm chairs—she realized she just wanted to be left alone. They went on, talking and laughing around her, but all she could think about was the dull horror of tossing and turning in bed for hours.

Yesterday she passed a point at which she'd been so exhausted she cried when she couldn't manage to fall asleep. Drained from another day of ignoring Malfoy, only to be stuck beside him for silent hours as they poured over more research—still bearing no clue as to motive—she'd thought last night she might finally get some rest.

Climbing into bed, she lay under her quilt, nuzzled her cheek against her pillow and sighed. So peaceful, so calm, so quiet.

But her eyes refused to stay closed for long. Sometime toward the morning she would finally drift off, only to be jarred from sleep shortly after by her alarm clock.

Yes, she was _still _tired, but she actually felt okay. She couldn't explain why, but she was instead beginning to feel strangely mellow, yet alert. Perhaps it was an effect of being so overtired.

Her mouth automatically pulled into a frown as she noticed a head of sleek platinum hair enter the shop. Enter, and make a bee-line for her.

Draco strolled past her friends, as though he didn't even notice them, and stopped abruptly in front of Hermione. "Granger, I need a word."

She opened her mouth to respond—to brush him off, it was the weekend, after all—but just as quickly as he'd cut across the room, he was walking away, again.

Biting deep into her lip, she watched him stop near the door of the shop and turn back to look at her, his expression stern.

"Prat," Harry growled quietly.

Hermione simply forced out a sigh and pulled out of her spot on the sofa. "Sorry, I'll be right back."

Barely refraining from stomping angrily along her way, she followed him to a quiet corner at the other side of the shop. "Alright, I'm here. What?"

Holding his usual scowl in place, he glanced around briefly, but kept his face turned toward her. "I think I found . . . something."

"About our assignment? Couldn't that have waited until Monday?"

Something in the way his expression slowly pinched as he met her gaze reminded her that he was likely in the same bizarrely sharp-yet-relaxed state as she was. "Not about the assignment. About . . ." He rolled his eyes, ducking his head toward her a bit as he dropped his voice. "About the thing in the storeroom."

Instantly she stood a little straighter. "You said I was a mad woman, and you wanted nothing to with something so idiotic."

Once more his eyes locked on hers. "And I meant every word."

Damn, even in a place full of people, it unsettled her to have Malfoy's blue eyes boring into hers. "So what changed your mind?"

"The voice, that thing in the basement, whatever it is? It's become worse."

"Worse?" Her eyes widened.

Again he glanced around. He'd led her to a relatively secluded corner, but still he still felt as though the walls had ears. "More frequent, louder, the cold lasts longer. But it's only been since the other night."

"When we found that window," she said, needing the verification.

He nodded.

"Louder . . . . Can you tell what it's saying now?"

"No," he said shortly. "But it said something new the last time. Something I think I did recognize."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but he answered before she could ask. "I heard it say my name."

* * *

As she watched her friend speaking to Blonde Satan, Ginny tipped her head toward Harry, her gleaming, red-gold hair sweeping over her shoulder. "Did I miss something?"

Green eyes narrowing, he replied in a low, unhappy tone, "She's stuck working with him on a class assignment."

Ron shook his head, grumbling as he watched Draco and Hermione—who alternately scowled, shifted in place, and rolled their eyes at each other while they muttered back and forth. "Trapped with Malfoy while studying Riddle, that's like having a nightmare _about_ having a nightmare."

Harry snapped his head around to look at Ron. "Her paper's about Riddle?"

Lavender reached across Ron's chair and slapped his shoulder. "Dammit, Ron!"

"Ow." He covered his arm with his other hand and leaned away from his ex-girlfriend. "Sorry, I forgot."

Harry ignored the commotion, his jaw setting. "Why didn't she tell me?"

"She didn't know how," Neville offered in a placating tone. "She wanted to, but she didn't know how. And it's not her fault; they weren't given a choice about their subject."

In that moment, Harry wanted to snap at his friends, but he held his tongue. Drawing a breath, slow and deep, he only shook his head. Of course Hermione would never _choose_ to study Riddle—he hated that they even thought that point needed mention—but he had never liked how she always tried to protect him; on rare occasion, to the detriment of their friendship.

He _was_ angry that she hadn't found some way to tell him, herself—that he'd had to hear it accidentally. And perhaps just a little upset that her research partner might discover who Lily Evans really was.

He couldn't imagine any scenario in which Draco Malfoy wouldn't use that revelation to make his life miserable.

Luna leaned back against Neville's arm, her gentle gaze on the pair speaking in hushed tones on the other side of the shop.

"Can you see that?" she asked, her voice barely audible in that ethereal way did and said everything.

Neville shifted, resting his cheek against the top of her silky blonde head. "See what?"

"It's like there's a balance between them."

He snorted a chuckle. "Yes, the very careful teetering of two people trying not to kill each other."

* * *

"I went back into the storeroom to look for the article about the suicides and I found . . . ." Draco paused, drew a breath, and blew it out again before going on. "It's probably best if you come see for yourself."

"For a newspaper article?" Disbelief threaded her tone.

His face fell. "You're not really this thick, are you?"

She frowned darkly at him before she realized what he was trying to say. Of course, _he_ wouldn't drag _her_ anywhere unless there was no other choice. "You mean there's something _in_ the storeroom."

"There's a—"

"Draco!"

Malfoy and Hermione turned in unison to look at the door of the shop. There stood Goyle and Blaise, who turned and began walking toward them, each of their bewildered gazes leaping from Draco to Hermione and back. By now, everyone in their respective social circles was aware the two had no choice but to deal with one another. However, no one was quite accustomed to witnessing it, yet.

Malfoy held up a hand and they stopped instantly, surprising her a bit as to what a tight and absolute grip he had on his Slytherin lackeys.

"You'll have to come see yourself."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her bangs. "I beg your pardon?"

His expression chilled and he lowered his voice so much that Hermione had to watch his lips to catch everything that followed. "We obviously can't go while everyone is about. I'll need to sneak you in. Tomorrow night, two o'clock, be at the back door of Slytherin Hall."

"You can't be serious."

"Spare me, Granger. You and I both neither of us has slept longer than an hour a night for over a week. Might as well do something useful with our time."

She shook her head, her shoulders slumping.

"Granger!" He snapped suddenly, his voice at normal speaking volume, once more.

Her gaze, still on his mouth, leapt up to meet his.

"See something you like?"

Her face soured as his grew smug. "Not really," she said airily, "just thinking how much nicer your face is when your lips are _shut_."

"Funny, I often think the same of you."

As she watched him turn and walk away, she ground her teeth and balled her hands into fists, glad there was nothing near enough to snatch up and throw at him. She didn't know what bothered her more, that she was going to enter Slytherin Hall again . . . or that she was going to be alone, in the dark, in that creepy room with Draco Malfoy.

_Again._

* * *

"I understand why you didn't tell me, but I'm still angry with you," Harry said, despite that he was hugging Hermione to his side as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't say it. I didn't want to keep it from you," she replied, sniffling.

Luna angled her head thoughtfully as she watched the very emotional wrap-up of what might well be the most spectacularly short argument of all time. She'd always found Harry and Hermione's rapport fascinating. "So that really doesn't bother you?" she whispered.

"Them? Oh, no, never" Ginny whispered back, laughing. She glanced up, spotting Malfoy at a table with his cohorts and flicked her finger from Hermione to Draco quickly, so that only Luna caught the gesture. "Now her and _him_, I'm not so certain of."

"Oh good," Luna breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm not the only one."

* * *

She couldn't believe she was doing this _again! _For the third night in just over a week, Hermione was darting across the campus grounds toward Slytherin Hall. What was _wrong_ with her?

This time, she ignored everything around her. She had to, in her current hyper-alert state, she would only get more frightened, or fascinated, or whatever else she might feel, were she to see anything like she had last time.

An image of that terrible inky face unfolded in a corner of her mind and she forced it away, picking up her pace until she was running. The wind rushing past her ears was so loud it helped her to block out any other distractions and before she knew it, she was rounding the side of Slytherin Hall.

And running was still not her forte. Figuring that she'd just saved herself a little time, Hermione allowed herself to crumble to the ground in an exhausted heap near the back door.

The sky overhead was perfectly dark-blue, rich and deep, dotted with dozens of twinkling pin-pricks of light. She let her eyes drift closed, breathing deeply of the scents of damp grass and brisk air.

Sad that Rowling campus could be beautiful if it wasn't for all the spookiness. Equally sad that maybe, just maybe, she was finally worn out enough to fall asleep.

And perhaps she had dozed for a moment, because she never heard the door.

"Bloody hell, Granger!" Draco's irritated whisper jolted her awake.

She reluctantly opened her eyes to see him, dressed as he'd been that first night in the storeroom—a random black t-shirt and worn-out jeans—standing over her with a look of haughty disapproval on his face.

"I'm having a nightmare," she said miserably.

His mouth curved in a mirthless grin, "That makes two of us." He stepped aside, and only now did she see that he held the back door open. "Let's go."

Hermione grumped and grumbled as she climbed to her feet. If he were a gentleman, and not just some high and mighty brat, he might've had the decency to help her up. Honestly, she was surprised he wasn't acting martyred over holding the door for her. Dusting herself off, she stepped past him and reluctantly set foot in Slytherin Hall.

As she followed him to the basement stairwell, she couldn't help but notice that the place felt a little different than the last time she'd been here. Perhaps because it had been empty, then, now there was life inside.

On the basement floor, her footsteps gradually slowed as she trailed behind him until she froze entirely in the entryway of the old corridor. At the storeroom door, he turned to see where she was and immediately clamped his lips shut against cursing in frustration.

Tipping his head forward just a little so that he could scowl _and_ glare disapprovingly at her in one go, he stalked back down the hall and slid a hand around her elbow. After the first few, half-dragged steps, Hermione began walking on her own.

Neither of them seemed to notice that Draco didn't relinquish his hold on her arm until they were in the storeroom.

He grabbed two high powered flashlights off a nearby shelf, handing one to Hermione before he closed the door. "I don't think we want anyone to see the light from this room through the window," he explained as he switched on his flashlight, but then held it out to her, "but . . . ."

Her brows drew together as she took it from him. "But?"

He nodded and started walking, beckoning her to follow him around some more shelves. The room was larger than she'd first realized, leading them to wind around a few more boxes and bookcases of dusty old things before they reached the back.

"I don't know what possessed me to come back here the other night, but I dropped something, and when I bent to pick it up, I noticed this." He braced his shoulder against a set of shelves and slowly forced it aside.

Now that case had been moved, Hermione could make out previous drag marks—many of them—scuffing the rough floor around the . . . .

Hermione forced a gulp before she could speak. "Is that a door?"

"Does it look like a door?"

She wanted to make a face at him, but she was too rattled at the sight of the marred, ancient wood rectangle set into the stone floor.

"And you think this might have to do with the room in Gryffindor." She couldn't peel her gaze from it as she asked, "Why?"

Forcing out a sigh, he reached down, grasping the handle. Draco wrenched the door open and eased it toward the floor so it wouldn't crash. His fingers brushed hers as he slid his flashlight from her hand, finally drawing her gaze away from the door, and the darkness beneath, to look up at him.

"Because I opened it when I first found it. I didn't go in, but . . . ." He knelt down, illuminating the opening. A short flight of steps and the beginning of a corridor were revealed. "If I'm not mistaken, isn't Gryffindor Hall in this direction?"

Hermione backed up a few steps, allowing herself the vantage point of seeing out the basement window. There, lining up with the pathway beneath Slytherin, was her Hall.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice hollow.

Footfalls drew her attention and she dropped her gaze to see Draco descending the steps. "Tell me you're joking!"

He halted and looked up at her. "You can always stay here."

Rolling her eyes, she flicked on the second flashlight and trooped down the steps behind him. "What if something is down here?"

Malfoy shined the beam upward, purposefully exaggerating the annoyed frown he gave her. "It's a walled off room and this is a door that has been covered up for God knows how long. I'm pretty sure we're not going to stumble over an ax murder."

He aimed the flashlight down the corridor and started walking. "Well, we might," he corrected himself, "but they'd be _well_ into decomposition by now."

She grimaced, her body slumping as she trudged after him. "I hate you, Draco Malfoy."

"I know," he said with what she was sure sounded like pride.


	7. Dust and Blood

**Chapter Seven**

Dust and Blood

_It stirred, stretching and pulling at its confines, at its messy and awkward corporeal form, but the servant hushed it soothingly, easing it back onto the bedding._

_"Patience. You'll have strength enough to make yourself whole again."_

_Despite the assurances he offered, the servant fretted. It didn't look right . . . and something about the way it spoke, about the way its garbled words sounded like two voices strangling out of the same throat, made him shiver in a mix of fear and revulsion._

_He must've done something _wrong_, but he couldn't let it know._

* * *

Their footfalls were painfully loud in Hermione's ears as they traversed the corridor, though she knew it was only her nerves that made her so acutely aware of the sound. And perhaps the dreadful hyper-alertness of her sleep deprived state.

She supposed Malfoy must be hearing it the same way, as with each step, his shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly, giving her the impression that he was cringing at the noises.

Holding in a sigh, she glanced around the passage as they moved. Thus far, it seemed a straight shot, no turns, no openings, just blank, gritty dark-grey walls. Cobwebs laced the corners, trailing threads hung down here and there, making Hermione grateful she wasn't very tall.

The air felt thick around her, settling heavily on her shoulders and giving her the impression that she might as well be wading through warm water. The silence that filled the corridor between the echoes of their footsteps jangled her nerves.

"You never did answer me that first night," she whispered, finding something, anything, to break the patches of quiet.

His pace lagged, and she immediately halted behind him, unaware of how close she shadowed him until she nearly smacked her nose against his back. Oblivious to her fumble, he continued walking. Perhaps he slowed his steps to consider his reply.

"Answer you about what?"

_Or not_. Hermione frowned thoughtfully. Maybe she was wrong; maybe nothing about their interaction that first night really had stuck in his mind. She dreaded to consider what it might mean if she couldn't get the incident out of her head. Worse, what it might mean if she couldn't stop thinking about it, but he never thought on it at all.

"Why did you protect me?"

Draco let out an aggravated sigh. She couldn't take a hint, could she? At least she wasn't so close behind him that he could feel her breath against the back of his neck, anymore. "Because you let me."

She stumbled, nearly tripping over her own two feet at his admission. "Wait, what?"

He halted, turning to look at her, his face unreadable in the light glancing off the dull, pocked walls. "I'm someone who_ is_ protected. All my life, everywhere I go, my parents, my _friends_, they shield me from things, always, as though I'm not expected to take care of myself, or shouldn't know how." His eyes flicked over her in a quick once-over. "The opportunity to _not_ be the one protected for once showed itself, and I took it. Which naturally brings us to my question, that _you_ never answered that night."

She'd never heard his voice like this. They'd known each other since middle school, had gotten into more verbal sparring matches than she could count over the last nine years, and yet she didn't think she'd ever heard a genuine or sincere word fall from his lips. Until now. This was the second time she'd caught Draco Malfoy in an unguarded moment.

And she had no idea how to respond.

"I'm sorry," God, she hated how weak her tone came out, "I don't remember what you asked me."

The little bitch . . . . Draco opened his mouth to deliver a not-so-gentle reminder of that evening, when she shined her flashlight down the corridor, stepping around him. "Oh, is that a staircase?"

"Granger," he growled under his breath, turning on a heel to follow her.

Sure enough, a few more feet and a staircase unfurled upward. She stood at the foot of the steps, the beam of her flashlight trained on a door overhead, her brown eyes huge as she stared up at it, unblinkingly.

The smirk that curved his lips was utterly humorless. "Are you attempting to open it with telekinesis?"

"I just . . . ." Her stomach twisted and the feeling drained from her fingers. "Maybe we shouldn't go up there."

His teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip as he fought the sore temptation to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. "So we came here for nothing, then?"

"Well, no." She wasn't so certain she wanted to know what was up there, anymore. "Look, we're not in our right minds. We're overtired and that's affecting our senses."

Scowling, he took a moment to rub his temples with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, his eyes drifting closed as he spoke. "Granger, it's a bit late for psycho-analyzing our decisions, don't you think?"

"We're in a state of hyper-awareness right now. What if . . . what if there is something up there, like whatever that thing is in Slytherin Hall, and it turns out to be dangerous? We could be more out of sorts than we think; we might not be able to react properly."

He dropped his hand, but continued to scowl, his eyes locking on hers. She certainly had a knack for over-thinking things at the precise wrong moment. "A better time for that question would have been before we walked down the world's most unsettling corridor," he pointed out. "If something comes at us, I promise to throw you back down the staircase."

He didn't wait for her irritated response, climbing the steps and pressing his shoulder against the door. Part of him hoped the wood was stuck tight. Pushing slowly upward to stand, the door gave way, moving with him—a bit too easily, he thought—and he wrapped the fingers of his free hand around its side to keep it from opening too far, too fast, and chance it making some loud noise that might rattle through Gryffindor Hall.

Easing the door open fully, he inched up the steps, shining his flashlight about before stepping up into the room. A whispered string of curses fell from his lips.

"Granger," he whispered urgently, waving almost angrily for her to join him.

Drawing in a deep breath—that did nothing to calm her, despite her dear hope that it would—she climbed the stairs, unwilling to look around the room until she was standing in it. She thought if she so much as glanced into it sooner, she might well turn around and bolt right back down the corridor.

The first thing she saw was Draco's face, looking paler than usual as he stared, wide-eyed, at a far wall of the room. Bracing herself, Hermione followed his gaze.

And had to hold back her own string of hushed curses. The flashlight's beam glinted off thick, carved lines. Symbols she didn't recognize decorated the length of the wall. It resembled some long-dead, pictograph script.

She took a step forward without realizing. "What is that?"

"Oh, like I'd know," Malfoy said quietly.

Forcing out a trembling breath, she shook her head, determinedly turning her attention from the wall to examine the rest of the room.

"Why is there an altar?" The words tumbled from her lips before she even realized she'd spoken.

Draco walked toward the stone slab—a little troubled to think that this probably predated the building hiding it—and swept the beam of his flashlight across the surface. This room was no different than the one to which it was connected, which had to mean the altar was brought in after the room was constructed. Given how heavy the thing likely was, he imagined that was quite a task, performed by _very_ determined people.

"Considering the rest of the room's décor, perhaps we should just be grateful there aren't dead animals on it."

"That's not funny," Hermione muttered.

"It wasn't meant to be."

At one end of the room, she spied a short corridor, like the one leading from the Slytherin basement to the storeroom, and crossed to examine the space. It dead-ended, no door, just a flat wooden surface. Likely something to simply cover up the entrance before placing the paneling on the other side of the wall.

"It's everywhere," he whispered, and she turned to see him pointing his light at the ceiling.

She looked up and gasped. The marks on the ceiling were different, not writing, more like . . . _sigils_, she thought. Swirling lines and slashes inside thrice-drawn circles.

She had no idea what they meant, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know. The air here felt lighter, strangely. It bothered her that the corridor had seemed to offer some resistance, however slight, but this room—which she thought should feel slimy, and disgusting, and negative in every other way imaginable—was almost welcoming.

There was something _so _wrong in that sensation that it sent a shiver down her spine.

"Granger," Malfoy's voice was so faint, she barely heard him.

Hermione pulled her gaze from the drawings on the ceiling—_how did they reach?_—to find him standing close to one of the walls.

"What is it?"

"We need to leave here. _Now._"

When she didn't budge, only looked at him questioningly, he came across the room to latch a hand around her wrist. He was down the stairs—pausing only long enough to yank the door closed—and dragging her behind him through the corridor.

"What is it?" she repeated, her tone demanding. "What happened?"

"Blood," he said simply, picking up his pace, nearly feeling as though the tinge of copper stung his nostrils, still.

"_Blood!_ What blood?" Hermione dug her heels in and wrenched her wrist from his grasp. "You tell me what you're talking about right now."

He turned to face her, his expression severe. "I felt someone standing behind me, but when I looked, you were across the room."

She nodded, edging him to continue; perhaps she was _too_ overtired, if she needed a more convincing reason to hurry out of there.

His eyes narrowed and he spoke from behind clenched teeth. "And then I thought—" he cut himself off, shaking his head and correcting himself. "I _know _I smelled blood."

Hermione felt the color drain from her face. "You smelled blood?"

"And—"

"There's more?"

His mouth pulled into a frown so severe it frightened her. "There was a layer of dust on the floors and the walls, but not the altar."

"What?"

"I noticed it when I turned to see where you were. The altar must've been cleared off, and there were footprints in the dust on the floor—in areas we never stepped—and what I'm pretty sure was candlewax drippings."

Her voice tumbled out small and hollow. "Someone is using that room for something."

"Someone who might come back any time."

"And there's no other way into that room accept . . . ." _Except the way _we_ came._

"Exactly" Draco said, spinning on his heel and continuing down the passage.

She was a step behind him the entire way back, all but hurling herself through the doorway, and out into the Slytherin Hall storeroom. Her entire body felt numb as she listened to Draco forcing the door shut and then pushing the shelves back into place.

She carelessly stowed the flashlights in a random box. When she looked over her shoulder, he simply stood there, staring at the bottom of the bookcase, tense and wide-eyed, as though he expected something to come bursting out any moment.

They couldn't stay in the storeroom any longer for the same reason they couldn't be caught in that corridor, she realized. There was no way to know when whoever was accessing that room might come back.

"C'mon," she urged, blindly grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him behind her as she darted out of the room.

Hermione didn't stop moving until they were out of Slytherin Hall, but she rounded to the back of the building. Pressing her back to the wall, she finally drew a deep breath, ready to let her legs give out. They needed a minute to calm down, both of them, to let the adrenaline drain out.

"You can let go of me any time, now."

"Sorry," she mumbled, only realizing her fingers were tangled in his shirt when he spoke up.

"What are we going to do?"

"There's nothing _to _do, Granger."

She blinked at him, trying to process his words. "So there's a secret room under Gryffindor and we're not supposed to say anything?"

He frowned darkly, his head tilting to one side as he held her gaze. "Who would believe us? By our own admittance, we're suffering from sleep deprivation, that makes our account of things questionable at best. And how would we explain finding the bloody room in the first place?"

Oh, damn he was right. And Hermione hated it when Draco Malfoy was right, but this all tracked back to that first night. When she'd been in Slytherin Hall, without permission, and he'd covered for her. There was no way to say anything without getting in trouble.

Suddenly another thought struck her. "Who would we tell?"

He merely looked at her, his eyebrows inched fractionally upward.

"We have on idea who's doing . . . whatever in there, what if it's someone on the faculty?"

"Maybe we should just forget we ever found it," he said calmly, staring at the ground. "You wanted to know what was in there, now you do, and whatever's going on in there has nothing to do with _us_."

"But . . ." She remembered the odd tension of the corridor, the comparatively welcoming feeling in that weird room_, _remembered Draco's words about the muttering voice in Slytherin. "But what if something wanted us— wanted _you_—to find it?"

"Christ, Granger," he groaned, blue eyes rolling.

"Think about it," she insisted, ignoring that as he turned to lean against the wall beside her, his shoulder pressed to hers. "You said that voice was louder and more frequent since we found the window. It said _your_ name. We got into the room and _you_ felt something behind you. _You _smelled blood."

"I see, well, unless that something is going to be a little more clear about what I was supposed to be doing there, I could give a damn. This was stupid."

She shook her head, not insulted—it_ was_ stupid—but in disbelief that something very simple hadn't occurred to either of them. "We should have taken pictures."

His face went blank, damn, why hadn't he thought of that? Oh, but then . . . . "My phone is up in my room."

"I have mine."

Draco set his jaw. "You have yours? You mean you brought your phone to a secret, middle-of-the-night meeting?"

She arched a brow at him. "This may have been a 'secret meeting', but I'm still a girl walking around campus on my own in the middle of the night. I may not be in a right mental state, lately, but I'd have to be brain dead not to keep my phone on me."

"So you can call for security?"

Hermione nodded. "Obviously. And I've got pepper spray in my boot, in case things get sticky."

"Prepared woman."

"Never hurts."

"Who didn't think to take pictures, despite having her phone on her."

She could swear she just heard a smile in his voice, couldn't help laugh in response. "Prat."

They both fell quiet for a moment. She became increasingly aware of the spot where his shoulder touched hers. It wasn't that he felt very warm, more that the rest of her felt cold by comparison.

Draco frowned thoughtfully. Was she right? Had whatever he kept hearing in Slytherin Hall wanted him to find that room? Well, that was an unnerving thought.

"I don't know how to process what just happened," she admitted in a small voice.

Why wasn't she leaving, yet? And why did it seem he couldn't feel anything but the soft pressure of her shoulder against his?

"Just so you know, I think you're a liar," he said suddenly, his tone serious.

Hermione pushed away from the wall and turned to stare up at him, eyes narrowed. "About what?"

He shrugged, his expression bland. Someone needed to get their minds off their bizarre discovery—and hold her accountable for being deceitful earlier. "Back in the corridor, you said you forgot what I asked you. You remembered everything else, so, you're either a liar, or you simply didn't want to answer."

"A little of both, I suppose."

He turned to face her, leaning a hip against the wall. "So the answer was . . .?"

She folded her arms around herself, darting her gaze around. He was right—again—she was being unfair. She didn't imagine his gripe about being protected was a sentiment he shared very often.

"_I'm_ usually the protective one," she said, at last. "I'm the one who tries to shield others from things. That's just the way I've always been. And I think I liked it being the other way 'round for once."

She hadn't even thought it through this far before, but now that she'd started to piece together her reaction aloud, she couldn't leave it unfinished. "Being protected felt . . . nice."

"Nice?" His expression chilled as he pushed away from the wall and took a half-step, closing the distance between them.

Hermione's eyes widened, but she stood her ground—she'd never backed down from Draco Malfoy before—even as she wondered what she'd said that irked him_ this_ time.

"That is twice now," he said, his voice low as his gaze dropped to her mouth, "that something I've done has made you feel _nice_."

"Well, I . . . " she shook her head, but found that she had nothing to say.

He leaned slowly closer, his head tipping slowly to one side, until his lips nearly brushed hers.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, but the tremor in her voice spoke volumes.

That smirk she so loathed tugged at one corner of his mouth. "_Shouldn't_, not can't. Interesting."

Hermione didn't realize she'd stepped back, or that Draco had stepped forward, until her back pressed to the wall. "We hate each other," she reminded, her words no stronger than they'd been a moment ago.

"Yes, we do," he leaned closer, still, whispering in her ear. "But perhaps that's why we _should_. No one would believe it."

His lips trailed down the side of her throat and she couldn't help that her eyes drifted closed, a pleading little sigh escaping her. He cupped her jaw, angling her head back as he ran the tip of his tongue along her collarbone.

Draco pulled back to look at her, giving her a moment. He wanted to see what _she _would do, given the chance.

Her mind was a bit hazy as she lowered her head to meet his gaze. Of course what he said was true—no one would believe what they were doing. And perhaps there was a strange sort of freedom in that.

Bunching her hands in his shirt, Hermione pulled him closer, catching his bottom lip between both of hers. She nibbled and sucked at the soft skin, oddly delighted in the pained groan it forced from him.

He pressed against her, trapping her body between his and the wall as he swept his hands down her sides. She surprised him by raising her knee to rest her leg over his hip.

She allowed his lip to slide from between hers, catching her breath as she murmured, "You said you were curious about what I taste like." She felt ridiculously bold, just asking, "What, exactly, did you mean?"

Draco offered a smug grin. "Been thinking on that, have you?" He rolled his hips forward, pressing between her thighs.

She gasped, her body moving against his of its own volition. Oh, it had been _too _long since she'd even been kissed.

He bit his lip for a long moment before replying, simply watching the expression on her face as he pressed forward again. "I meant that _exactly _as it sounded," he whispered.

His words, and the delicious feel of him grinding himself against her, sent a sharp pulse thudding through her. His hands slid around her, grasping her bottom and pulling her even more tightly to him.

He thrust his tongue between her lips and she moaned into his mouth, lost in the kiss, in the feel of him moving against her.

. . . In the feel of _Draco Malfoy_ pushing himself against her as though they were—

Hermione broke the kiss, putting every bit of strength she had into pushing him away. Even if this felt good—even if it felt _amazing_, which she hated to admit it _did_—even if no one would find out, this was still _too_ fast, still too much for her to handle all at once.

He merely looked at her, catching his breath as he flashed a grin that would make any scoundrel proud. "Problem, Granger."

"No," she whispered around gulps of air, "I've just never done this sort of thing with someone I hated, before. And I really do hate you, Malfoy."

He watched, half-amused, as she turned and, taking a moment to collect herself, walked away. But then he glanced down at himself, at the bulge in the front of his jeans. His shoulders slumped as his scowl slid into place.

"Probably not half as much as I hate you, Granger."


	8. Echoes

**Chapter Eight**

Echoes

_She shivered, the thin layer of cloth beneath her doing little to shield her from the cold surface. Instead, she focused on Him—on His deep brown eyes, on the wealth of gleaming brown curls that framed His face and the way that the dancing light of the flames around them only made Him more beautiful._

_The gazes of the others flicked from Him, standing above her, always so regal in their simple black robes, to her and back again. She could feel their energy—their understandable mix of joy and jealousy rested against her skin as though it had form._

_His mouth curved charmingly as He looked over her body. "Do you wish to be mine?"_

_Again, she trembled, this time from the warm, delicate stroking of His fingers down her naked side. "Yes, my lord!"_

_He nodded, His smile widening as He leaned closer, carefully pressing the tip of the blade into her flesh._

* * *

Hermione bolted upright, a single, pained holler falling from her lips as she clamped a hand over her arm. Breathing heavily, her gaze swept the dawn-dappled darkness around her as she tried to make sense of what just happened.

There came a pounding at the door, followed by Parvati's voice. "Hermione? Are you all right?"

"Um, ye—yeah."

"Would you like me to come in?"

Hermione shook her head, pushing her hair behind her ear. She wanted to say no, but maybe the presence of another person would settle her nerves. "Yes, sure."

The bedroom light came on and she squinted against the unexpected brightness. Parvati was across the room in a flurry to perch on the edge of Hermione's bed. "I heard you shout."

Only when the other girl grasped her shoulders did Hermione realize she was shaking. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a shuddering breath.

"I'm fine," she forced out. "I'm sorry, it was—it was just a nightmare."

Parvati's dark eyes were huge as they held Hermione's. "About what?"

"I . . ." Hermione dropped her gaze. "I don't remember," she mumbled, hating to lie, but too unnerved by the imaginary sequence of events to speak on it.

The skin beneath her fingers felt warm. Perhaps she'd flailed in her sleep and banged it against the night table? She slid her hand from her arm and gaped in disbelief.

Parvati blinked a few times, trying to banish any residual sleep from her eyes. "Oh God, did . . . did you bump something?"

"I must've," Hermione whispered, her instantly watering gaze on the discoloration marring her upper arm.

"Pray I never get a bruise like that," Parvati said lightly. "Well, we're up now, might as well greet humanity's greatest nemesis: Monday Morning."

Hermione nodded, forcing a smile and pushing her quilt away as Parvati stood. She pretended not to notice the mark as she went about getting ready to meet her friends before classes.

But she felt quite the opposite. She was painfully aware of the discolored skin on her arm, as though that tiny patch of flesh was heavier than all the cells surrounding it. The strange shape of the _bruise _rattled her, she couldn't help thinking she'd seen it before.

Last night . . . in the stark contrast of flashlight beams against lines etched in stone.

* * *

_He shifted, uncomfortable beneath his robes. The energy of the others washed over him, drowning out his senses as they watched. He wanted so to get to the revelry, but their lord did enjoy the melodrama of prolonging things. Often He seemed to forget that the night was possessed of but so many hours._

_Silver and crimson glinted in the firelight and he hissed, echoing the others as he felt the searing—as though He dragged the metal across the flesh of each one of them, all at once. But she didn't cry out, at least, not in the way one should expect. Instead, she moaned, writhing in apparent ecstasy, as the tip of the blade dragged along her skin._

_Their lord helped the girl to stand, displaying her for them to see. "I have chosen my bride," He roared for all to hear, a dark and savage joy threading His words._

_He understood the joy, but not the fuss. There were more marks to add, more nights like this, until she was _completed_, but the drawn out nature of the rite allowed for more revelries, so perhaps he could find it in him not to mind._

_The others exploded around him in a sort of exuberant chaos. She was now removed from participating, seated before the fire as a few of them gathered around, petting her hair and stroking her skin, but no more than that. They didn't dare. Their lord stood near, His dark eyes unreadable in the flickering orange light as He watched them all._

_Oh, well. He stretched as he let his robes drop to the ground and turned away from the spectacle of her being fawned over. She had been his favorite, but no matter, with his looks, he was second only to their lord when it came to the others lusting after him._

_A lithe redheaded girl approached him, a wide grin on her face and firelight dancing across her naked curves. As she slung her arms around his neck, he noticed the mark on her skin. Frowning darkly, he glanced at the same spot on his own arm._

_His gaze roving over the girl's head, he looked at each of the revelers in turn. They all shared it; each of them mirrored the bloody symbol on His bride's arm._

_Cold fear twisted his stomach in a knot, even as he slid his hands over the girl's hips. Certainly he'd felt the blade, but only now did he realize that their lord had bound them _all_._

* * *

Draco's eyes opened slowly, his vision bleary as he sat up. He wasn't certain if he just woke from a nightmare, or interrupted a sex dream. He prayed it wasn't the latter, that redhead was gorgeous.

But he was troubled, his fingers lightly raking his upper arm through the sleeve of his silk pajama shirt. The bloody symbol on the girl's arm struck him. Had he seen it on the wall of that creepy room?

Yes, of course, he was _so _stupid! He barely refrained from slapping his palm against his forehead. His mind had thrown at him things he imagined that altar might've been used for, which—naturally—coupled with the state Granger had left him in last night.

_Granger . . . . _His jaw set as the memory of her tongue tracing his lip came back to him, distracting him from the dream. The feel of her against him, the sounds she made as he pressed between her—

_Dammit!_

His gaze fell into his lap. This was unacceptable! She was going to pay for this, he decided. Pulling his quilt up over his shoulders, he wrapped it around himself as though he was cold, before grabbing his towel and change of clothes.

The last thing he needed would be for someone to see him in this embarrassing state before he managed to reach the washroom.

Bloody hell, did he _hate _cold showers.

* * *

"God, Harry, you look like hell," Hermione muttered, taking a seat across the table from him.

He forced back a yawn. "Oh, like you're one to talk."

She only grinned sheepishly and began picking at her chocolate chip muffin. "Well, I have an excuse, _I _had a nightmare." She ignored that she'd only had two hours of sleep.

Nightmare or not, that was probably the most sleep she'd gotten in the last week and a half.

Green eyes closed slowly as he rolled his head back, an unhappy grumble escaping when he couldn't get the vertebrae in his neck to crack. "So did I."

A golden-brown eyebrow arched at him. "Really? What about?"

"I was . . . " his mouth pulled into a tight line as he set his head straight and dropped his gaze to the table top. "It's actually a bit disturbing to go into. What about yours?"

He reached toward her plate to pluck out a chocolate chip, but she slapped his hand.

"Ow!"

Hermione just frowned at him. "I don't really remember," God, she hated lying to Harry, but there was no way she could tell him about her dream. That would only lead to _why _it upset her so—certainly it was unsettling, but it hadn't actually been very frightening—which would, of course, lead to what she'd done last night.

Oh, God, what she'd _done _last night!

She forced herself to maintain focus on their conversation, despite the delicious little thrill that pulsed between her thighs at the memory him—of _Draco Malfoy_—moving against her. Distantly, she tried to recall exactly when she had lost her mind.

"All I remember is that I woke up scared," she offered in way of explanation, her voice a touch breathless; she only hoped he attributed it to the recollection of waking up in fear.

Again Harry tried to sneak a chip, and again she batted away his hand.

"Why do you keep doing that?" He feigned a pout.

Hermione held onto her frown. "Why don't you get your own breakfast?"

"Fine," he said, yawning as he snatched up a menu from the end of the table.

She had the misfortune of looking toward the door at just the right moment to catch Malfoy entering the shop. Why was she cursed with such abysmal timing lately?

His gaze darted away—scanning for his friends, she thought, checking if they were paying attention to him just yet—and then returned to hers. He raised a brow, just the quickest upward flick, as he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip.

Hermione forced a gulp, her cheeks warmed as that sweet pulse rippled through her once more. She shifted in her seat, grateful Harry's attention was occupied, but Draco had seen it.

He'd seen her face redden, seen the way she squirmed, and he grinned . . . . That cruel, satisfied grin that made her want to deck him. She knew he'd made that expression just for her. It was too easy to read in the way he schooled his features _immediately_ after she'd reacted, and strolled casually past their table to join his friends.

"I sincerely hope you don't have to work with that prat much longer." Harry said, almost absently. "You're starting to look like him."

She met his gaze, wide-eyed. "What?"

"You're scowling."

"Oh," Hermione shook her head, doing her best to relax.

Ron burst into the shop, Lavender close at his heels. "You aren't going to believe this!"

Hermione gave a start at the commotion, feeling an instant flare of irritation. So much for her attempt to relax.

"Ron, I really don't think you should—" Lavender was saying as she reached for his wrist.

"Will you get off me, woman!" He shook off her grasp to frown almost menacingly at her. "It's better coming from us than he turns on the news and sees it himself."

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, green eyes darting between the two. "What are you going on about?"

Ron produced a newspaper from behind his back and slapped it down on the table. The dreadful words _Possible Riddle Copycat on the Loose? _glared at them from the front page.

Immediately Hermione reached to snatch the paper off the table, to hide the headline before Harry could see it.

He moved just as quick, pinning the paper against the table with the tips of his fingers. His head tipped forward, his looked at her over the rim of his glasses. "Please, stop protecting me," he said quietly.

Her expression immediately become apologetic and she nodded, slumping back in her seat. She couldn't take her eyes from Harry's trembling fingers as he began flipping through the paper.

"Can you believe it?" Ron's tone higher than usual cracking under the weight of disbelief, as it did when he panicked. "Even a crazy person shouldn't want to copy Riddle!"

Hermione was instantly aware of silence falling all around them. Cringing, she whispered angrily, "Dammit, Ron."

"Riddle?" an unfortunately familiar voice echoed from the other side of the shop.

_Oh no_, she didn't want to turn around, didn't want to open her eyes, but before she knew it, Draco was at their table. She finally did look up, it was to see him snatch the paper from Harry's hands.

"Oy!" Harry demanded, but Malfoy acted as though he didn't hear the protest as he thumbed to the article and scanned it.

Squaring his jaw, Draco slammed the paper back down. His eyes snapped up to look on Hermione's. "I think we need a word with our professor."

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode to the door. A brief glance over his shoulder to find she hadn't budged prompted a single, irritated, word to fall from his lips.

"_Granger_!"

Rolling her eyes, Hermione grabbed her bag, her breakfast forgotten while she mouthed apologies to her friends. She could feel the weight of gazes—not just her friends, but Malfoy's, perhaps even Malfoy's friends—on her as she ducked out of the shop behind him.

She couldn't focus on the why. She understood, quite simply, that they couldn't possibly suspect what happened last night. None of them would ever get used to the sight of her and Draco Malfoy maintaining the close proximity to one another without a palpable hostility hanging in the air.

* * *

Hermione's heart was in her throat as Draco burst in the door of Snape's office, a paper—that he'd made _her_ run by the campus newsstand to grab—in his hand.

Snape's cool, dark eyes rested on them lazily, as though not at all surprised by the sudden intrusion. "What do you two think—"

"What is this?" Draco said evenly, anger edging his tone as he slammed the paper down on the professor's desk.

Malfoy was stood pin straight, his hands clenching and unclenching in fists and Hermione took half a step away. Part of her felt as though she was watching a caged animal.

To think she'd once believed him weak. Past spineless reactions when he'd thought no one was looking had once painted him a coward in her eyes, but his recent slips in such behavior and his current state of anger that overrode everything else? She didn't have the luxury just now to wonder if those previous cowardly responses were an ingrained part of that protection about which he'd complained last night.

Snape sighed heavily as he turned his attention to the words in front of him. "This . . . is the media's attempt to sell newspapers and whip the public into hysteria."

"You assigned us a serial killer who's method is being duplicated—"

"I've read the article, Mr. Malfoy. One murder does not . . . a serial killing make. Or perhaps you've both lost your ability to comprehend the written word, as the term _possible_ is right . . . there before you."

"Possible or not, I don't want to be known as having documentation in my possession on Riddle's kills when the police are searching for a copycat—possible or otherwise."

Snape's gaze flicked from Draco's to Hermione's and back before he leveled a tired reply, "You did not read the entire article. The body was . . . discovered yesterday, but the crime was committed weeks ago. To connect your research project—your _randomly_ determined research project—to it would be ridiculous."

Malfoy bared his teeth, giving Hermione a start, as he leaned forward. "Assign us a different subject!"

Arching a brow, Snape folded his hands and sat back in his chair, staring at them imperiously as he uttered a single, absolutely final-sounding, word on the matter.

"No."

* * *

"You didn't really think that was going to work, did you?" She couldn't help asking as they walked down the corridor toward their first class of the morning—certainly they'd be early, but there seemed little point in returning to their friends for such a short time.

Harry had probably devoured that muffin as soon as he'd returned to his senses. Her empty stomach grumbled with regret.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, scowling at the ceiling for a brief moment. "I do not need this right now, Granger." Suddenly he spun on her. "And what was with the silent act in Snape's office? Thank you very much!"

"You heard him, it was in his voice from the moment he started speaking," she snapped back at him. "There was no way he was going to reassign us and nothing I could say would have been of assistance. In fact, he'd probably have made our next assignment more difficult!"

The door locked and Malfoy angrily thumped it with his fist. "I've never wanted to not to something more in my life than this damned paper!"

"That makes two of us," she quipped, finding a tiny bit of humor in how much they seemed to use that phrase on each other.

She turned, leaning back against the wall beside the door. Sliding the strap of her bag down her arm to drop it to the floor, she unconsciously avoided the bruise on her arm.

Something in her ginger movements snagged Draco's attention. He was in front of her instantly, grabbing her wrist.

"Hey!"

He ignored her protests as he roughly pushed her sleeve up her arm. She bit her lip, looking down to find that the mark had faded, but had not yet vanished fully.

Malfoy's face became paler than usual as he stared at it. "Granger, what the hell is that?"

When she didn't respond, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice shaky. "I—I had a dream and . . . ." Hermione let her words slide off as she watched him relinquish his hold on her wrist to brush his fingers—absently, like he didn't fully realize he was doing it—over the same place on his own arm.

"Oh no." Her shoulders slumped as she worked her sleeve back in place. "You too?"

"About the altar and the people in the black robes?"

She nodded, the dreadful twisting in the pit of her stomach winding tighter as he nodded back.

"I don't—" She dropped her voice as the people began to fill the halls. "I don't know what's happening."

"Neither do I," he admitted, his expression cold. "As much as I hate to say it," he snapped his gaze up to lock on hers, assuring himself that he had her full attention, "but I think we need to find out more about that room."

Hermione closed her lips against a hopeless sigh. He was right, and she hated it. And she hated the idea of poking around in that room again. _And_ she hated him for showing her that hidden door in the first damned place.

She'd never imagine she'd find so many new levels on which to hate Draco Malfoy. Honestly, keeping up with how much she disliked him was getting exhausting.


	9. Unease

**Chapter Nine**

Awkward

Harry's jaw set as he watched Hermione trail Malfoy out the door. "I can't wait 'til she's done with this bloody class."

When he turned back toward the table, he found Ron and Lavender occupying the other side of the booth, both their gazes following the mismatched pair, as well. Ron's face was scrunched up in what Harry thought was meant to be an expression of anger, but the mask barely hid what his friend felt.

However, Harry thought if he was going to be so jealous now—of something that _wasn't_ even a thing—perhaps that was consequence he should have thought of before he'd cheated on Hermione with his ex-girlfriend, Lavender. Wait, that wasn't entirely true. As Lavender told the story, Ron hadn't actually mentioned to _her_ that they were broken up, so technically he was cheating on Lavender with Hermione, while cheating on Hermione with Lavender. . . . Something like that.

For nearly two years, Hermione couldn't talk to another boy without Ron swearing they were hitting on her. On occasion he'd been correct, of course, but then there were times he'd been so far off-base that all she did was laugh and point out that it was his own fault that who was, or wasn't, interested in her was no longer his concern.

Harry just shook his head. He'd tried to sort it out several times already, and finally decided he was just glad they'd all shut up about it and moved on.

"I hope she's making his life hell," Ron muttered, reaching for Hermione's forgotten chocolate chip muffin.

Unable to resist, Harry slapped Ron's hand away and pulled the plate closer to himself.

"Ow!"

"I don't know," Lavender said, her voice taking on an almost dreamy quality as she rested her chin in her palm. "They almost look good together."

Harry and Ron exchanged a horrified glance before both turning to gape at the girl.

As though she could feel the weight of their gazes, Lavender turned her head slowly to look at each of them in turn. "Oh, I mean . . . if he wasn't such an ill-mannered, foul-tempered, unforgivably spoiled prat."

Lumping together the majority of Malfoy's most notable negative traits seemed to settle Harry and Ron.

"I know you were all trying to protect me, but honestly," Harry started, his gaze pointedly touching upon the newspaper as he started picking—guilt-free, now—at the chocolate chips, "I don't care about that."

"Are you mad?" Ron's eyebrows shot up into his overly-long ginger bangs. "There might be someone out there trying to—to . . . ." He leaned across the table and dropped his voice, as though it would make the words easier to say, "To copy the way your parents' murderer killed people!"

"_Might_ be," Harry echoed shortly, snatching up the paper and crushing it into a ball. "But it's _not_ Riddle, so I don't really care. And my parents _didn't_ die that way."

Lily Evans had died a hero, crawling to the lockbox to retrieve the handgun while James had struggled with Riddle. She wasn't able to move quickly enough—not with such severe wounds—to save James, but she had gotten off a lucky shot on Riddle. Hours later, she succumbed to her injuries, but not before ensuring, with her final words, that her son not be connected to such a terrible tragedy.

As far as Harry was concerned, his mother had saved Riddle's next victims _and_ him in her last hours of life.

"You're right, I'm—I'm sorry," Ron said, forcing a weak half-smile.

"'s okay," Harry shook his head, refusing to think any more on the matter.

A noisy yawn erupted out of Lavender as she gave an almost painful-looking stretch. Both sets of male eyes pinned her, their mouths hanging open.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron asked, trying not to laugh. "Did you just murder a swan?"

"Sorry," she said with a quick, awkward giggle. "I guess I just didn't sleep well last night. I had this weird . . . . Hmm. I _want_ to say nightmare, but I'm not really sure that's what it was."

Ron's face puckered in confusion. "What do you mean, you're not sure? Was it a nightmare or wasn't it?"

"Well, that's what I mean," she gave an angry pout and shook her head. "It wasn't scary or anything, just . . . strange, but when I woke up, there was this sense like what was going on was _really _bad. In fact, I think I had that feeling throughout the entire dream, just . . . under the surface."

When Lavender finished explaining, she looked from Ron to Harry and back again. There was confusion, still, on both their faces, but there was also a bit of fear now, as well.

"I had a dream that felt like that last night, too," Ron whispered, his brow furrowing.

Harry glanced toward the door of the shop as he said in a low tone, "Me, too. Hermione also said she had a dream that scared her last night."

A moment of heavy, strained silence wrapped around the table. After shifting uncomfortably in their seats, Harry chose to force the conversation forward.

"What were your dreams about?"

"I don't want to say," Ron and Lavender blurted simultaneously before giving one another a shocked look.

"Hang on," Harry held up a hand. "I said the same thing when Hermione asked me. She said she couldn't remember hers, but . . . maybe she only said that 'cause she didn't want to talk about it, either."

Lavender lowered her gaze to the tabletop. "This is really weird, I mean, even for Rowling, right?"

"I don't know," Harry said as Ron shrugged. "We're all still a bit new here; maybe this sort of thing happens here."

"Alright," she conceded with a brief nod. "Maybe then we should . . . say what they were about? You know, in case they were all completely unrelated really weird dreams, with . . . highly_ coincidental_ timing."

Ron and Harry both opened their mouths, their protests dying on their lips as Lavender's phone chimed. The set of her shoulders eased instantly, the change in her posture telling them she was no more eager to discuss it than they were.

"Well, time to get to class," she tried for sounding chipper, but the relief in her voice drowned out the attempt.

They all nodded, still feeling a touch awkward as they scrambled out of their seats. Harry snatched up the muffin before Ron could, the balled up newspaper in his other hand.

He was only too happy to cram it into the wastebasket. That was really the only place_ anything _bearing Riddle's name belonged.

* * *

Hermione frowned at the computer screen—another dead language, another bunch of images and squiggly lines that looked nothing like what they'd seen on those walls, nothing like the mark still fading on her upper arm.

"I'm not seeing anything that matches," she said miserably.

Draco groaned, pushing out of the seat he'd occupied for the last twenty minutes, staring listlessly at the library shelves, while she'd combed the internet for valid information on ancient script. He leaned over her chair, peering at the screen over her shoulder.

"Are you sure you're looking in the right places?"

She scoffed, "I get better grades than you and you think I can't handle a search engine."

"Don't get so pissy," he said, his tone infuriatingly dismissive as he leaned closer still, thoughtlessly covering her hand with his as he used the mouse to scroll down the page.

"You think pressing your face to the screen is going to magically make them match?"

Malfoy sneered. "Well, maybe you're remembering them wrong."

"Me? Why is this suddenly all on _me_ to remember? You were in that room, too!"

She turned to face him, realizing with a start how close he really was. Only when she slid his hand from beneath his, did he seem to finally notice, as well.

He jerked back a suddenly, as though stung by something, and then straightened up. He couldn't decide what was worse, that terrible constant awareness inching along his skin when she was too close, or the moments—brief though they were, moments like the one just now—when they were _too_ comfortable being close to each other.

"You never did tell me exactly what happened," she forced the words out.

His brow furrowed, as though he didn't quite understand her words.

"In your dream," she elaborated, ignoring that holding his gaze made her skin feel warmer. "I told you about what I saw, and you said yours was _similar_, but which means it was like my dream, but not the same. So how was yours different?"

Draco cleared his throat, looking at the floor as he resumed his seat. "Well, you said you woke up after he started cutting your arm?"

Hermione nodded.

"I was one of the . . . people watching." He shifted in the chair, and for some reason, she found his un-Draco-Malfoy-like discomfort interesting. "You see, after the symbol was cut, a _celebration_ broke out."

Chestnut eyes narrowed. "What sort of celebration?"

"The sort that would lead me to believe it was all part of some . . . pagan sex rite."

She forced a breath. "Pagan se—" she cut herself off, blinking in disbelief. "I see."

He offered a mute nod, one eyebrow lifting.

"That doesn't seem right," she murmured thoughtfully.

Draco laughed, short but harsh. "I _know_ what I saw."

"No, I don't mean . . . ." She frowned at him, shoulders drooping for a second. "I mean pagans are traditionally worshippers of nature, they're not evil. What was happening in that dream felt . . . wrong and dark; _un_natural."

His customary scowl slipped over his features, making her wonder if it was a defense mechanism—was he actually aware he made that face so often, or did he no longer even notice?

"What difference would it make? We're no closer to knowing what that means," he made a vague waving motion at her arm.

He was right. _Again? Dammit! _But they were missing something.

"There are magickal alphabets we could try, but we still don't have any context for what they mean." _What if we can't find the symbols because . . . _. She sat up a bit straighter, causing him to look up at her.

"Granger?"

"What if we can't find it because it's not an actual language?"

His eyebrows shot up. "I don't follow."

"Like a code or a specific dialect? Something those people _made up_ themselves?"

"It would still be based on something, likely a combination of different written languages."

"Well, now, you are more than just a pretty face," she quipped, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

He simply stared at her moment before that smug, aggravating grin curved one corner of his mouth upward. "So you think I have a pretty face?"

"Shut up," she snapped, rolling her eyes.

"All right, code or not, we still need to see the actual writing before we can attempt to decipher it."

Hermione sighed heavily. "You're right."

"I know."

"Which means—"

"Exactly."

Throwing her head back, she let out a defeated groan. She did _not _want to go back to that room.

"However . . . ."

Setting her head straight, she met his gaze. "However?"

"Well, what if we could get back in there without having to go through that tunnel?"

"But there's no other way in."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands before him. "We don't need to get inside; we just need to _see_ inside."

Her face scrunched in doubt. "The window?"

Draco nodded.

"We can't unbrick the window, we'll be seen, or whoever's using that room will know it's been found."

"Not the entire thing, just a brick or two. Just enough that we can take pictures of the walls." Frowning thoughtfully, he reached out, grasping one of her wrists and lifting her hand. "Your hands are small, one brick should do."

Hermione looked from his face to his hand around her wrist and back before pulling out of his hold. "I can't believe we're even discussing this, it's mad."

* * *

"I can't believe we're _doing_ this," she rephrased, staring daggers at the back of Malfoy's platinum head as they made their way to Gryffindor Hall. "It's _beyond_ mad."

"We're not actually doing anything right now," he reminded, his voice tight. "Right now, we're just going to see if any of them are loose enough to work out easily."

"If there are?" She couldn't help glancing around as they walked; feeling like everyone was watching them. They were only receiving scattered looks of mild interest here and there, but she couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on them.

"Then lucky us, we can get the pictures now."

Something in his tone told her that he purposefully left off the rest of his statement. "And if not," she prompted, dreading his conclusion.

"We come back later and chisel one out."

She ignored the word later, even though she knew what he meant. He meant at night, but he didn't want to say that. They weren't exactly having the best luck with mental clarity at night, recently.

"Chisel," she mumbled, a lift of question in her voice.

He shrugged. "A hammer and a flathead screwdriver, it's not rocket science."

"I don't like this," she muttered as they reached the building and ducked around the side. "You know, we should be working on our Riddle research."

Draco flashed her a bored look. "And I'm the mad one? Do you really want to focus on Riddle right now, knowing there maybe someone out there doing the_ same_ thing to people?"

"Not really." She came to a halt beside the bricked up window and turned to face him. "But we have to get it done eventually. We've only got one week left."

"Please, between you and me, that's more than enough time for some sodding research paper. I just think we can wait a day or two, until this copycat-thing either has more information to prove or discredit it, or at least it's not so fresh in our minds."

Hermione just blinked at him. Draco Malfoy was actually being reasonable. So he could be reasonable, and feel discomfort. Oh, dear, if he kept that up, she might start to think he was a normal human being.

"You're right."

"I know."

_This certainly sounds familiar, she thought_, bristling at the sight of his self-satisfied smirk. More normal human being or not, she was suddenly repressing the sore temptation to deck him.

Kneeling, she pressed on the bricks, one after the other. With each unsuccessful push, her heart sank a bit lower. She could _not_ be out with him at night again. Not with their current track record.

One gave way beneath her fingers, startling her, and it fell into the room. She exchanged a quick, worried look with Malfoy. Cringing, she waited for any sound from inside. When nothing came, he nodded slowly.

Fishing out her cellphone, Hermione flicked on the flashlight and peered into the room, angling the beam around. Everything looked the same, everything accept . . . ."There's something on the altar," she whispered, her voice hollow.

Though he wasn't very close to her, she was aware of how tense he became in that instant. "Well, hurry up. Take a picture of the altar, and then get whichever walls you can." He strolled to the corner of the building that faced the quad and casually leaned against Gryffindor Hall, roving his gaze about as inconspicuously as possible.

"Fine, but if something bites my hand off, I swear I'll use my other one to pummel you to death," she seethed, rolling her eyes.

Of course he'd play lookout while she did the dirty work. Before taking the first shot, she looked around again, reassuring herself that it was empty. Satisfied, she snapped off as many as she felt safe getting; one of the altar, one of the ceiling—or at least as much of it as she could get at this vantage point— and two of each of the walls, save the one she had her wrist sticking through.

Extracting her hand, and making a quick count that all her fingers were still there, just in case, she jumped to her feet. When she approached Malfoy, however, he didn't budge, didn't look over his shoulder, gave no acknowledgement that she was there.

Refraining from another eye roll, she scrolled through her pictures. "Okay, I may be wrong, but that looks like a bundle of cloth."

"Hmm?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, but returned his attention forward, to whatever he'd been looking at a moment ago.

"What could possibly have you so fascinated?"

Again, he glanced at her, his expression severe. "Follow me."

Without waiting for her response, he started off, cutting across the quad.

Hermione groaned and shook her head, dragging her feet to trail after him. This was happening entirely too often. To her surprise, he led her to an area behind the old church. No one really came near the place—everyone said the vibe of the disused church grounds was far too unsettling.

He came to stop in a patch of bare, dry soil. She thought that strange. Bare soil in the middle of a field of spring grass for no apparent reason. She was positive this was accepted as simply another one of those Rowling things, if anyone noticed it at all, but now she couldn't help thinking of the barren bit of earth as suspicious.

He turned slowly, his gaze roving with the movement before coming to rest on the steepled rooftops behind her head. "This is the spot," his voice was barely audible and she had to step closer to hear him. "This is where the—the _rite_ in that dream took place."

She felt a chill creep across her skin as she looked over her shoulder, following his gaze. "You're sure?"

"Positive. I remember looking around. And the church was there, in the background. I just had no reason to pay mind to it at the time."

"Yeah, I'd imagine you were distracted," she muttered.

A smug tone threaded his words, "Is that jealousy I hear, Granger?"

"Not on your life, Malfoy," she spat the words out. "And you're sidetracking."

"You're right."

"I know. You're sure it was here?"

"I told you already, yes! The altar—the one from that room—was here," he pointed to the center of the ring of bare soil.

Biting lip, Hermione turned to fully face the crumbling structure. "Dark rites were performed on church ground?"

"Seems so. No one's set foot in there in hundreds of years, who knows what's gone on since."

She shook her head, trying to get her bearings, trying to think around the jagged chunk of ice their conversation had dropped into the pit of her stomach. Against her better judgement, she backpedaled, knowingly stepping closer to Draco as she held up her phone.

"I think maybe we should worry about what's going on_ now_," she said cryptically, opening the picture of the altar.

Malfoy finally gave it his full attention, unaware of closing his fingers around hers as he brought the phone closer to examine the bundle of dark cloth. "Are those . . . robes?"

"Suddenly studying Riddle doesn't seem so awful."

"I'm inclined to agree. Let's . . . let's pretend we never found this."

"Agreed," she nodded, slipping her hand from his to put her phone away.

In silent, unanimous agreement, Draco and Hermione turned and began walking away from the sad, unnerving little building and the suspicious patch of dead soil.

She couldn't help pausing, couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder. The faint sensation of her skin buzzing, that tingling press of eyes on her, had crept up on her.

Beside her, he shook his head, urging her forward with a splayed hand against the small of her back. "I feel it, too. Let's just keep _moving_."


	10. Curious Things

**Chapter Ten**

Curious Things

_He lifted the cup to its lips, eyes fearfully narrowed as he watched it slurp at the thick crimson liquid._

_"O-o-n-n-e-e . . . m-m-o-o-r-r-e-e . . ." it choked out, pushing the cup away._

One more_, the servant thought with a frown._ _It overestimated its strength. No matter, he would retrieve as many as necessary._

_The servant shuddered, a small, but sudden jolt coursing through him._

_A smile split its twisted face. "A-a-h-h . . . s-s-o-o-m-m-e-e-t-t-h-h-i-i-n-n-g-g . . . s-s-t-t-i-i-r-r-s-s."_

Something stirs, _the servant repeated the words silently. Relief swept through him—so great his knees almost buckled beneath him. It had felt the pulsing spike of energy._

_Everything would be all right. Perhaps his error had not been so grave. It would make everything better, and he would ensure that._

_Whatever was necessary._

* * *

Hermione tossed and turned, but then, what was new? She couldn't get out of her head that bizarre moment with Malfoy outside the church yesterday evening. There had been no dream last night, but then she'd only managed an hour of sleep—if that much—so perhaps she simply hadn't given her body time to enter REM state.

Holding in a groan, she sat up, folding her arms around her knees. The script on the walls was still gibberish, they were still no closer to motives for Riddle—though she was starting to think they should find a way to build from lack of evidence, rather than what little evidence was present—and she was beginning to realize that the more time she spent in Draco's presence, the more often her internal dialogue turned to repeating her hatred for him. Over and over again.

As though some part of her thought she might forget.

Yes, of course, she'd told Malfoy they wouldn't look into anything to do with that room anymore, but she couldn't help herself. Not that it mattered, since her search still turned up nothing—so she might as well not have looked at all—but her curiosity was a noisier presence in the back of her head than usual.

Pushing away the quilt and climbing quietly out of bed, she padded to the window. The spires of the tiny, dilapidated church rose in the distance, nearly lost against the darkness of the night sky.

She traced the steeples with the tip of a finger against the glass. That sensation of being watched . . . Malfoy's unprompted admittance that he'd felt it, too.

Whenever she thought on that moment, the spot on her back where he'd pressed his hand to keep her walking tingled in a way that made her breath come up short.

_Just like now_, she realized in an odd sort of dread as she forced herself to inhale normally.

A shadow darted outside of the church and Hermione froze. Silly response, as though whatever was down there could see her.

Steeling her nerves, she leaned closer to the glass, eyes narrowed. The shadow moved again and she reflexively jumped back.

It wasn't her imagination—oh, why couldn't anything just be her imagination, lately—someone was lurking about outside the church. Likely it was probably Filch, or Hagrid.

Though, they had every right to be on the grounds, so why would either of them need to _lurk_?

Hermione bit deep into her bottom lip, backing away from the window. Who that was didn't matter, why they were there didn't matter. She was going to get back under the covers and close her eyes and stay that way until her alarm sounded.

They could be dangerous, and whatever they were doing was none of her business!

So why, in the name of God, was she shoving her feet into a pair of boots and dropping her phone in pocket of her pajama pants as she crept to the door? Tip-toeing the down the corridor and descending the staircase, she couldn't help picturing a tiny image of herself—a mini-Hermione—sitting in the back of her head. Mini-Hermione repeatedly slapped her palm against her forehead as she tried to figure out just what the bloody hell Regular-Sized-Hermione thought she was doing.

The frivolous imagining did little to settle her nerves as she slipped through the front door and eased it shut behind her. Learning from her previous instances of traipsing across campus in the dead of night, she wasted little time looking around, assuring herself no one was about, before darting across the quad.

Locking her gaze on the church, she hurried along, determined to ignore any Rowling things that might pop up along her way. She hugged herself as she drew near, uncertain if she shivered from a chill in the air, or from fear, but unwilling to give the sensation enough consideration to figure out which.

The steepled roof loomed overhead, and Hermione stepped into its shadow. She skirted the edge of the building, her footfalls as delicate and silent as she could manage.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded to herself and pressed to the wall, inching forward slowly until she could see around the corner of the building.

Her jaw dropped open at the sight of a platinum blonde head. He was hunched down, peering through one of the cracked stained glass windows.

"Malfoy?"

Draco bolted upright, spinning on a heel to face her. Immediately he slammed a palm against his chest and forced out a loud, aggravated breath. "Dammit, Granger!" He leaned against the window, letting his head fall back as he muttered, "We have got to stop meeting like this."

She would have smirked, if not for the fact that he seemed a bit paler than usual. "What are you doing out here?" her whisper was barely audible as she came out of her hiding place.

He frowned darkly, blue eyes rolling up to regard the church. "I couldn't sleep. Again. I glanced out the window and happened to see a light coming from inside here."

Her heart thumped painfully even as she stepped closer, bending to peer through the crack in the window as he'd been doing when she found him. "You're joking."

"Yes, because I'd be out here if I didn't fully believe my own eyes, sure," he grumbled—she didn't have to look at him, she could tell by his tone he was scowling.

Hermione couldn't make out anything beyond dark, blobby shapes against an even darker backdrop. "Did you see anything when you got here?"

"Whoever it was must've left. What of you? Why are you out here?"

"Because I saw someone creeping about the place. How was I to know it was you?" She laughed softly as she shook her head. "And you said _I'd_ be an awful cat burglar."

"Whatever, there's clearly nothing here, now. We should—"

"I'm telling you, I know what I saw!" Filch's angry voice cut through their hushed conversation.

"And I'm telling you, ain't no one comes out here anymore," Hagrid's voice boomed, despite a clear attempt at whispering. "Daft old man."

"You should respect your elders."

"Start acting respectable and we'll talk," Hagrid chuckled.

Hermione turned wide eyes on Malfoy, but he was already moving. Clamping a hand around her elbow, he hurriedly pulled her with him around the far side of the building. The wall bowed inward, creating a funny little shadowed nook.

"Shh," he cautioned, staring over her head, out into the tiny graveyard. Of all the unfortunate hiding places he could have stumbled upon . . . .

She had the oddest impression that he had his finger against his lips. Clearly he paid no mind to how he was pinned behind her in the cramped makeshift alcove or that, even if she was facing him, it was far too dark to see each other.

The security guards' clomping footsteps drew closer and Hermione shrank back, holding her breath. Her heart thumped so fast and hard against her ribs she thought they might hear it.

The men circled the building, but only when Hagrid bellowed "D'you see now? Nobody's here!" His sigh was audible from the other side of the structure. "Daft old man," he said again, stomping away.

"I'm telling you, I saw someone out here," Filch insisted angrily, though his voice grew fainter.

"Before or after you finished off a pint?"

The argument continued, but their words became increasingly unintelligible, the further they walked.

Hermione dragged in a breath, nearly collapsing against Draco as all the tension drained out of him. The weight of her against him without warning pushed him into the wall.

"Dammit, Granger," he hissed—he certainly said that often, lately.

She felt the rush of his breath ghosting over the side of her throat and tensed all over again. Her breath echoed in her ears and she was painfully aware of the feel of his chest behind her, rising and falling.

"You were right," she said, her words low and trembling.

"I know," his voice was smug. "About what this time?"

Hermione let her head rolled to one side against his shoulder. She was so tired; tired of her fear, tired of her curiosity, tired of being _tired_ . . . tired of these moments.

These moments of enjoying something she shouldn't even want.

"We have got to stop meeting like this," she murmured.

Well, if this wasn't a hint, he didn't know what was. He slid his hands over her hips, tipping his head down so that his lips brushed her ear as he spoke. "You're the one who followed me."

She let her eyes drift closed, wishing he'd stop talking and start using his teeth. "I told you I didn't know it was you."

"Mm-hmm," his lips closed around her earlobe and she shuddered, pressing back even more tightly. "Let a man dream, will you?"

A sigh escaped her as he ran the tip of his tongue down the side of her throat. The sound of leaves rustling in the breeze caught her attention. She tried to push it away, to focus on the feel of his fingertips, dipping beneath her shirt to trace over her abdomen, on the warmth of his mouth on her skin.

But the rustling reminded her of where they were. Pressed up against an abandoned church, in the dark, facing a _graveyard_. Hiding was fine, but this was a bit much.

"Malf—Draco, stop," she whispered urgently, pulling out of his arms—even as her mind teased her with imaginings of his hands tearing at her clothes as he lowered himself to his knees before her—stepping from the shadowed nook to turn and look at him.

"Draco?" He echoed, wide-eyed, following her from the darkened crevice. "You've never—"

"I wanted to make sure I have your attention."

"Well, you've got it," he finished, cringing, as though the syllables were painful to say, "_Hermione_."

For a moment, she was put off by how bizarre her name falling from his lips sounded. Shaking her head, she wrapped her arms around herself and concentrated on her words. "What exactly is this?"

Draco's brow furrowed, his gaze flicking about. "This what?"

Scowling, she gestured in a circle, indicating both of them and the stupid damned nook. "This!"

He took half a step back, blue eyes narrowed as replied, "Two people enjoying themselves?" His voice was flat, giving her the impression that he wanted to emphasize that there was nothing more to it than that.

"Oh, get over yourself," she muttered. "I mean you still can't stand me, and I still can't stand you, yet it seems like we can't be alone in the dark without ending up all over each other."

A thoughtful expression crossed his face as he nodded. "Sounds about right."

"If this sort of thing is going to keep happening—"

"Which it probably will . . . ."

"Then we need to set some ground rules or something."

"Ground rules," he echoed.

"Well, I don't imagine your friends would be any more forgiving than mine if this was found out. We might get bored with each other before we finish our assignments for Snape's class, or what if we don't, and we keep at this after the term is done? We'd have no valid reason to be seen walking off anywhere together."

"You're right."

"I know," she said, taking a cruel sort of joy from the way his jaw set.

He reached out, hooking a finger into the waistband of her pants and tugging her closer. Offering a wicked grin he flicked his tongue over her bottom lip and dipped his head to kiss her neck.

Her eyelids fluttered at the feel of him nipping and lapping at her skin. "Are you going to listen, or not?"

"You can keep talking," he mumbled, his lips brushing over her pulse. "I'll try to listen, but . . . no promises."

"You're insufferable."

"Oh, like you didn't know." His hands slid beneath her shirt again, circling her, stroking his fingers down the bare skin of her back.

"You're not making this easy," she whispered, unable to stop her own hands from slipping beneath his clothes.

Hermione repressed a grin as the tips of her fingers traced over the lines and dips of lean abdominal muscles. Draco Malfoy was fit, who knew?

"That wasn't really my intention," he said, leaning back from her a little. He lowered his head, scraping his teeth over her breast through her cotton top. "However," he went on, raising his head again to meet her gaze, "I can think of much better uses for your mouth than talking."

Laughing in spite of herself, she shoved him away and spun on a heel. "I'm completely serious."

"Fine, fine. I know," he muttered, grumpy, as he started walking. "I'm just not very good with rules."

"All right," she said thoughtfully, only a few steps behind him as she tapped a finger against her chin. "So we keep them simple."

"_Fine_, Granger, I'm listening." He leaned a hip against one of the old gravestones and folded his arms across his chest.

"I think the first thing, is that we be careful about where and when this happens. If we both go missing at the same times—for the same _amount_ of time—people are going to start to wonder."

"Agreed."

"Whether we stop, or keep at this, it doesn't interfere with our academics."

"Agreed."

"Last, no emotional attachment."

He scoffed, shaking his head and laughing. "Yeah, don't think we'll need to worry about that."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she frowned at him. "Tell me about it, _but _stranger things have happened, it would be stupid not to plan for it on the off-chance."

"I suppose you're right," he conceded with a scowl.

"I know I'm right." She smiled at his irritation. "If we start thinking of this from an emotional perspective, it's over."

"Agreed." He snatched her wrist and pulled her close, covering her mouth with his.

She leaned into him, allowing his tongue to slip between her lips. She caressed it with her own, letting out an angry little groan when he broke the kiss.

"We wasted a lot of time talking," he pointed out, grinning wickedly at her reaction. "Should probably get back."

"You're right."

"I—"

She clapped a hand over his mouth, cutting off his words. "Don't."

Gaze locked on hers, he parted his lips to delicately stroke her palm with the tip of his tongue. She let out a harsh, trembling sigh, enjoying the feel of his mouth working her skin, before reluctantly withdrawing her hand.

Giving herself a shake, she pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. "Oh, God, it's almost four."

"See?"

"Goodnight, Malfoy." She turned and walked away.

Draco watched her disappear around the side of the church and leaned a hand on the grave stone. Frowning, he brushed his fingers back and forth before bending to look at it.

"Granger!"

Malfoy's urgent whisper made her turn around. He stood near the back of the building, waving for her to come back.

"Bloody hell," she hissed, stomping back over to him. "What?"

"I think I've found what those symbols mean."

She froze. "I thought we were leaving all that alone."

"How can we when we trip over connections to it?"

"What?"

"I think they're carved into the gravestones—or at least one of them is. C'mon, turn on the light on your phone and I'll show you."

She did not want to go back toward the cemetery. "No."

"You're not serious."

"At least not now, okay?" She shook her head, hugging herself as she quickly glanced around. "Look whatever's there will still be there tomorrow. Please, let's come back after class, when it's light out."

"Fine." His shoulders hunched, and he stepped away from the building to cross the quad beside her.

The walk was actually comfortable, much to Hermione's surprise. They didn't speak, barely acknowledged each other, but maybe everything was just easier now that they knew where they stood with one another.

At the half-way point between their Halls, he halted and turned to face her. "I also suppose we should think of better places."

Her brow furrowed. She was too tired for her brain to function properly. "What are you talking about?"

"For our non-academic activities." He leaned close, whispering so that his breath touched her lips. "Unless you want someone to catch us while I'm . . . sating my curiosity."

_Hating you doesn't mean I can't be curious. About what you taste like. _Oh, if what he'd done on her palm was a sample of how talented his mouth was . . . .

She let out a tiny, shivering sigh. "You're terrible, Malfoy."

He smirked wickedly. "Oh, like you didn't know," he quipped for the second time that night before turning on a heel and heading toward Slytherin.

Hermione bit deep into her bottom lip as she watched him walk away. Tossing her head back and letting out a frustrated groan, she continued on her way to Gryffindor.

* * *

Lavender pushed her blanket off and climbed out of bed, posture drooping from exhaustion. Frowning sleepily, she cast a glance at her clock. Almost four a.m. This hour was so ungodly, it shouldn't even exist, not even for middle of the night bathroom trips.

Yawning, she scratched at her scalp and turned toward the door. Her gaze flicked toward the window and she stopped in her tracks. She'd recognize that head of platinum hair from a mile away.

But . . . frowning, she drew closer to the glass. _Who's that with him?_

"No," she whispered, disbelief threading her tone as she recognized Hermione. "What the bloody hell?"

They were just walking. Not speaking, not appearing to even realize there was another human being beside them.

Then they stopped. They stopped and began talking. He leaned in close.

Lavender's hand flew up to cover her mouth, muffling a tiny gasp. _Had he just kissed her? _No, no . . . okay, heart attack averted, but that was a _very_ close conversation.

She turned away from the window, wide eyes blinking several times in rapid succession as she tried to process what she'd just seen. Dropping her hand, she placed it lightly over her heart.

Finally, _finally_, after all this time, she had something on Hermione. She'd at last be able to get even for that wretched embarrassment Hermione had caused her. The even ground she'd wanted since, the level playing field . . . .

But suddenly Lavender wasn't so sure she could bring herself to use it.


	11. The Thirteenth Grave

**1) Apologies for not having an update yesterday, woke up with a terrific head cold & really couldn't focus on anything.**

**2) I've come down with a plunnie for a second HP fic. Though it is canon universe, the story will largely take place outside of the typical Potter-canon-world setting. I will not start it until this fic is—or is nearly—completed. Working title thus far is _The 5th House_, and the featured pairing will be Draco-Hermione, with some possible smatterings of Harry-Hermione, or (dare I type it?) Harry-Hermione-Draco.**

**3) I have not had the chance to read-through for any typos or missed words, I'm very sorry. I will be combing through and fixing them up as I find them.**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

The Thirteenth Grave

_His gaze traveled the length of his arm, tracing over the ghostly image of each symbol. It was perfect. Their lord's bride was ready._

_So why did his stomach knot with unease as their lord approached him?_

_There was something beneath the charming smile; _something_ crept behind those friendly brown eyes. He shifted nervously, but dared not move._

_He dared not flinch, or even let his breath shorten despite that immediately following each blink of his eyes—for the barest second—he felt certain their lord's perfect white teeth were rotted, jagged, colored the disturbing rust-red hue of old blood. The whites of His eyes flooded with slick, oily blackness._

_But only for that scant moment in time, then his vision cleared, and the handsome, smiling face of their lord was normal again._

_"Come with me," He said softly, slipping an arm around his shoulders. "There is a task which only you can perform."_

_Nodding stiffly, he fell into step beside their lord, ignoring the feel of his heart hammering, sharp and painful, inside his chest._

* * *

Harry shot up in bed, his gaze darting about the room wildly as he dragged down huge gulps of air.

It was the same as the first nightmare. . . . And yet not. Touching trembling fingers to his cool, damp brow, he tried to make sense of what he'd just experienced.

The sequence of events was different, but the people, the place, were the same. Black robes, firelight, grass beneath bare feet . . . .

_Bloody jagged teeth . . . ._

He shook his head, trying to banish the fragmentary image. The nervous fear that twisted in his gut in the dream persisted, inching along his skin, making his movements jerking and uncertain as he reached for his glasses.

_Dark, soulless eyes . . . ._

The deep-seated sense of familiarity with those gathered around him should have afforded him at least a modicum of comfort, yet it only strengthened his dread.

How had Lavender put it? _It wasn't scary or anything, just . . . strange, but when I woke up, there was this sense like what was going on was really bad. In fact, I think I had that feeling throughout the entire dream, just . . . under the surface. _That sounded exactly right.

Forcing a long sigh, he shook his head and checked his alarm. He held in a groan as he stood and began gathering a change of clothes. A few more minutes and the clock would sound, anyway.

"Good morning, Harry," he grumbled unhappily, determined not to let anyone realize how drained he was.

He would not have Hermione hovering around him like some overprotective mother hen. She was barely keeping that tendency under wraps as it was after the whole Riddle Copycat article.

He was suddenly even gladder that he'd never gotten to discuss the dreams with Ron and Lavender—that would make it all the easier to pretend nothing was wrong.

* * *

"I still don't like this," Hermione muttered as she followed Malfoy back to the cemetery.

"I could be wrong about the gravestones, if I am, then fine, we go back to leaving it alone." He tacked on in an irritated tumble of words, "Just humor me, Granger."

"Fine."

She'd felt off all day, and she severely doubted that returning to the old graves was going to put her in any better spirits. Harry wasn't quite himself and she couldn't shake the impression that Lavender was looking at her funny. As though . . . she wanted to say something, but didn't know how to start. Poor Neville had been so tired this morning that he'd nearly fallen, face-first, into his plate of pancakes.

And Ron, well, Ron was _Ron_, and that was odd enough.

"Okay, look," he knelt beside one of the graves and held out a hand toward her.

Sighing and shaking her head, she pulled up a picture of one of the walls and set her phone in his palm. As he zoomed in on the different symbols, looking for a match, she couldn't help casting a glance behind her at the church. Briefly she wondered if it was any less unsettling when it had still been in use.

"There it is," he announced suddenly, giving her a start.

Frowning, she leaned over his shoulder, peering at the screen, and then at the symbol etched in the stone. "You know what," she whispered, "I was really hoping they wouldn't match."

His eyes drifted closed as he willed himself to ignore the feel of her breath against the side of his neck. It was light out, anyone could walk up on them and they were doing something important.

Clearing his throat, Draco shook his head. "That makes two of us."

He stood and made a slow circle of the gravestones. Beside each, he paused, panning around the image on Hermione's phone until he found the matching symbol.

She followed on unsteady legs, dreading the realization that was dawning with each grave they passed, with each symbol they matched.

"Eleven," he said quietly. "There are eleven graves here."

Frowning as she thought that over, Hermione absently raked her fingers across the mark—now no more than faint white scratches—on her upper arm. "Eleven. Why does that number seem familiar?"

"The suicides of Riddle's classmates," he explained, his voice hollow.

A chill curled in the pit of her stomach and she forced away the sensation of a shiver dancing along her spine as she met his gaze. "You don't think there's some connection, do you?"

He shrugged, pretending he didn't feel a need to ease her nerves. "On the surface it would seem, but there's two symbols missing. The one on your arm, and another; there are thirteen symbols on the walls, in different patterns. That's why we thought it was a language, but it's the same thirteen again, and again. So we're really looking at thirteen for whatever _this,"_ he made a vague circle with his free hand, indicating the cemetery and decrepit church, "is."

"But, if Riddle was number one, than that makes it twelve."

Draco frowned, scowling at the images on the phone's screen. "Twelve, sure, but still not thirteen."

"Well, true, but—" something moved in the distance, behind Malfoy's head, catching her attention immediately.

She darted across the small cemetery, missing his bewildered expression.

"Who dashes off in mid-sentence? Honestly, who raised you?" he grumbled as he trudged after her.

Hermione came to a halt beside one of the only sections of stone fence still standing. "There was something here."

"Remember that sleep deprivation thing we've been dealing with lately?"

She ignored the snarky tone as she looked around, trying to remember exactly what it was she'd seen. "No, I saw . . . ." she shrugged, uttering a hopeless groan. "Something."

Rolling his eyes, he, too, looked past the fence, but rather than outward, as she was, his gaze passed over the ground. The thick, overgrown grass, the patchy bits of dry soil peeking out here and there, the pile of jagged, grey stone . . . .

_Wait . . . . _He climbed over the fence and made a bee line for the pile, kneeling beside it.

"Is that what I think it is?" She asked, beside him before he'd even realized she'd followed.

He picked through the stones, some large enough that piecing them back into their original form might be simple. She dropped to her knees beside him and helped him reconstruct the stone as much as was possible.

"Number twelve," he murmured, his voice barely audible as they stared at the first of the two _missing_ symbols.

She was silent and he looked up at her. The color had drained from her face as she watched the symbol with wide eyes, as though she expected it to jump to life and bite her.

Against his better judgment, he reached out and placed a hand over hers. Her gaze sprang to his.

"It's still not thirteen."

"Are you sure?" She was afraid; she could hear it in her tone, and she hated to hear herself this way. So small and trembling . . . helpless, it was appalling. "Maybe thirteen just isn't _here_. Do you remember how many were there in the dream?"

He scowled, his eyes rolling skyward. "No. Look, we don't even know what these are doing here. We have no idea what's going on."

She didn't understand. She was the one with the mark on her arm—the mark that mysteriously wasn't here amongst the others. She was connected to this; somehow, as was he, since it was that entity saying _his_ name that led them into all this.

But he seemed indifferent to it all, and that confused her. "And doesn't that terrify you?"

"Yes!" He shouted, surprising them both.

She recoiled as though he'd struck her. "We should probably go," she mumbled, standing and dusting off her jeans.

His teeth sank deep into his bottom lip as he shook his head. "Granger."

She paused, but didn't turn back to face him.

"Your phone." He moved toward her and slipped the device into her hand. "I put my number in there. You know we . . . still have research to do. And we're . . . stuck with each other a while, so . . . ."

"Yeah, sure, of course," she said a bit numbly. "Makes sense," she added, offering him a nod before hurriedly walking away.

He let out a sigh, hanging his head. That had come dangerously close to being an emotional moment; they were going to have to watch things like that.

Draco kicked the broken gravestone with toe of his boot, forcing some of the loose, jagged bits at the bottom more tightly together. What looked like a mish-mash of scratches suddenly came together as intelligible letters.

"Hello," he whispered, kneeling once more as he brushed the tips of his fingers over the thinly etched lines, surprised that age hadn't worn them away completely.

"Voldemort," he breathed the name, disliking the way the very sound of it sent a chill up his spine. "Just who were _you_?"

* * *

_She pressed her mouth against his shoulder, muffling an ecstatic squeal as he thrust his hips, driving himself deep inside her again._

_Pulling away enough to look into her eyes, he feigned a disappointed frown. "You need to be quieter."_

_"I am sorry," she said, pouting._

_"You are not."_

_". . . Fine, I lied." She shrugged, enjoying that the lift of her shoulders brought his gaze to her breasts. "I like making those noises. They feel sinful."_

_"They _are_ sinful." He leaned close, nibbling on her lips a moment before continuing, "Which is why you cannot make them, someone might hear. I have a solution. Turn over."_

_She offered him a surprisingly—and completely phony—shy smile as she moved back so that his length slid out of her entirely. Sweeping their vestments aside, she rolled onto her elbows and knees on the meager bedding._

_"That is better," he murmured as he rose up behind her and grasped her hips. "Muffle your voice against the blanket and you can make all the sinful noises you wish."_

_She did as instructed, pressing her lips into the fabric as she felt him position himself, felt the tip of him pushing inside her._

_The door of his cell burst open before either of them could react. Both froze, feeling their lord's presence the moment he set foot in the small room. His rich brown eyes flicked over them, registering everything—their naked state, his hardened length, the slick, pink skin and damp, dark curls between her legs._

_They sprang apart, each grabbing at things with which to cover themselves as they looked fearfully back at Him. Seeming to take their dread into account, His broad shoulders drooped and He turned, closing the door._

_"You have disappointed me," their lord said softly as He took a step toward them._

_She instantly shrank behind her partner, pressing a trembling hand to his shoulder blade._

_In an attempt to ease her fright, He sat beside them and reached out, catching a lock of her hair and coiling it around His finger. "But I am not angry."_

_As soon as those words fell from His lips, the tension drained out of the pair._

_"However, you cannot do this again. I have plans for you," their lord's gaze leaped from hers to his and back, "both of you. To expend such precious energy outside of ritual is wasteful. I trust I am understood."_

_"Yes, my lord," they murmured in unison._

_He leaned in, pressing His lips to their foreheads in turn and then left them to dress._

_She bit her lip, puzzling over His reaction as she pulled on her habit. He did not seem concerned that someone else, someone from the _outside_, might have overheard them when once that was the first concern He would express._

_Now, all their lord seemed to care for was their nocturnal rites. There was a change in Him, a _disquieting_ change, she thought, forcing a small gulp down her throat as she wondered if any of the others had noticed, as well._

* * *

Hermione blinked sleepily, fumbling for the phone buzzing beside her head. "What the bloody hell," she mumbled, seeing Malfoy's name staring back at her from the screen.

"I just had another of those damned dreams," Draco's hushed whisper was nothing more than a hurried tumble of words.

Instantly wide awake, she hugged herself tightly, her gaze skittering about the darkened room as she whispered back. "So did I. What happened in yours?"

There was a long, strained silence on the other end of the line and she couldn't help ducking beneath her quilt. It simply felt as though there were . . ._ things, _things dark and gnarled and twisted in the corners of the room, watching her, listening to her. Hanging on the very sound of her breathing.

"I was . . . having sex with the girl who got the symbol cut into her arm in the first dream, but I think this was _before_ that."

A shocked, stuttering breath escaped her.

He heard the sound, responding automatically, "Dammit, Granger."

"Um, He . . . I keep thinking of him with a capital 'H'—like he was somehow more significant than the rest of us—walked in, interrupting—"

"And said he was disappointed. We were wasting energy . . ." his words were slow now, as though he wanted her to stop him, to tell him something different.

"Energy best saved for our _rituals."_ Hermione's voice was tiny and empty as she went on, uncertain what it meant that they'd both had the same dream, but from opposite perspectives. "And there was something strange about him. I think I was a little afraid of him because of it."

"I wondered if anyone else noticed, or if it was my imagination."

"Oh, damn. I wondered the _exact_ same thing," she closed her eyes, holding the phone tightly to her cheek.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice assured her that in the morning—when it was light, and _thing_-free, and safe—she'd find this all quite amusing. Here she was, Hermione Granger, snuggled up under her blankets—circumstance notwithstanding—as she shared a hushed, late-night phone conversation with Draco Malfoy.

"The girl . . . when she got dressed, she was wearing . . . " Malfoy's words trailed off, but she didn't want him to continue, didn't want him to give form to the realizations that were taking shape in her own mind. "God, Granger, whoever these people were, whatever they were doing out there . . . they weren't just anyone."

"The priests and nuns," she said, her whisper barely audible.

His tone became thick as he tried to speak around his own disbelief, as he confirmed what she'd witnessed. "They were the _clergy_ of that church."


	12. Connections Tangled

**Chapter Twelve**

Connections Tangled

A humorless smirk twisted Snape's lips. His dark eyes lifted from the assignment on his desk to fix upon Hermione and then Draco, before dropping back to the pages in front of him, once more.

After another tense, painfully long moment, he finally said, "You realize this is Thursday afternoon; the assignment is not due . . . until Monday."

"Well, technically, professor," Draco started, raising a finger, "that _is _just a deadline, which means we're free to turn the paper in sooner if we finish before that day."

Hermione cringed as she watched Snape's eyelids drift downward while he inhaled deeply—and rather noisily—through his nostrils. _Oh, there is _no_ way he's not going to fail us on assignment, _she thought miserably.

"I _am_ aware of that, Mr. Malfoy," he explained as he opened his eyes, his voice tight. "I was attempting to afford you both a bit more time to be . . . certain you are satisfied with the conclusion you have drawn."

* * *

_"Psychotic break?" Malfoy read aloud from the screen, dark brows shooting upward. "Are you certain? I'm not sure there's evidence to suggest that."_

_Hermione gave an exhausted roll of her eyes. This was hardly how she'd wanted to spend lunch, but then she didn't have much appetite lately, anyway. "Yes, but that's my entire point. The evidence doesn't _suggest _anything. The very fact that he went from a man who—by all accounts—was polite, well-spoken, upstanding and mild-mannered to a cannibalistic, blood-drinking serial killer seemingly overnight could only indicate a break. I don't know how else to explain such a dramatic shift, do you?"_

_He scowled as he gave her question a moment's thought. "No."_

_Hell, this was all so simple and obvious to her now that she felt certain they might have had the assignment completed days ago. That was, of course, if it hadn't been for all their sidetracking over hidden rooms, mysterious symbols, and creepy, ritualistic sex-dreams. Then there were those first few study sessions during which they'd simply refused to cooperate with each other, and their completely inexplicable moments of kissing and groping in the dead of night._

_Then again, perhaps it_ should_ be a surprise that they'd gotten any work done, at all._

_Hermione shook her head, focusing on the moment at hand. "Something happened, he . . . snapped—"_

_Malfoy shot her a look, his brow furrowing._

_"For lack of a better term," she said with a long sigh. Honestly, her brain was so fogged from losing sleep he should count himself lucky that she could verbally communicate her thoughts, at all. "Anyway, he kills them to vent some anxiety, but maybe in his broken mind, he imagines that because they're _good _people, by consuming something of them, he absorbs that goodness. Sinning and then absolving that sin."_

_Draco crinkled the bridge of his nose in distaste. "Like a twisted version of Penance, or Holy Communion?"_

_She shrugged. "Something like that."_

_Frowning, he leaned his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples with the pads of his thumbs. "I suppose that works. And I don't think staring at the same _lack _of information for another three and a half days is going to provide us any different answers."_

_She nodded, typing out their agreed upon assessment. He made a thoughtful sound behind her, she just barely heard it over the sound of rapid keyboard clicks._

_"What?" She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was hardly as though his fingers were broken, yet somehow she'd known _she _would be the one stuck playing secretary._

_"I was just wondering what Riddle's anxieties might have been," he said, his voice low._

_Hermione paused, for some reason, the very question raised goose bumps along her arms. "Doesn't matter," she murmured forcing her fingers back to work. "His_ actual _thinking can't be assessed. If Snape wants something more specific, he can tell us that himself."_

_"It might affect our grade."_

_Refraining from slamming her palm against the computer table, she turned in her seat to meet his gaze with narrowed eyes. "I _don't _care. I can't believe I just said _I_ don't care about a grade , but it's true. Okay? I don't care, because I don't _want _to think on Riddle's deep, inner-most thoughts any more than is strictly necessary, do _you_?"_

_"Not particularly." Frowning darkly, he sat back, affecting that peculiar regal-slouch of his._

_She silently held his gaze, her expression icy._

_"Dammit, Granger," he grumbled as he squared his jaw, "I was only curious."_

_Chestnut eyes gave him a once-over, his wording momentarily distracting her from her agitation. "Your curiosity has a terrible habit of getting us in troubling situations."_

_He offered a quick, upward flick of one eyebrow. "Doesn't it just?"_

_Forcing herself to scowl, she pointed an angry finger at him. "Not now."_

_That smug, infuriating smirk curved his lips. "Clearly not _now_, Granger. Honestly, we're in the library in the middle of the day," he whispered. "Anyone could stumble in on us _now_. Perhaps sometime later, though—"_

_"Not discussing this here."_

_"In the dark—"_

_"Will you be quiet?"_

_"Some place where no one will see—"_

_"Draco Malfoy," she hissed, her tone lethal._

_"Hermione Granger," he responded, mimicking her scathing look. "See, you aren't the only one who can do it."_

_Refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her giggle at his asinine behavior, she turned back to her typing. "Prat."_

* * *

Draco arched a brow. "Is there something wrong?"

Her gaze darted from her research partner to their professor before she settled on staring at a spot of light reflecting off the lip of Snape's desk. In an odd way, she admired Malfoy's ability to not cower under the man's withering glare.

Pointedly clearing his throat, Snape lifted the folder and flipped to the last page, rereading a few lines. Setting it back down, he inhaled deeply and looked at them again. "I suppose not. You both . . . may go."

* * *

After a few long, silent minutes of trailing behind Draco down the corridor, Hermione halted. She'd been turning their discussion with Snape over and over in her mind and her wrung-out brain finally kicked into gear.

"Malfoy," she said softly, her gaze on the gleaming tile floor.

"Granger," he responded, halting, as well, but remained facing ahead of them.

"Did that all seem a bit . . . ."

"Odd?"

She nodded, despite the awareness that he couldn't see the gesture. "Didn't it feel as though he expected a different answer about Riddle?"

"Not quite," he said, his voice quiet, before slowly turning to face her. "Maybe more like he _hoped_ for a different answer."

"Why should he _actually _care about Riddle's motive?" She frowned thoughtfully, trying to connect the dots even as she asked the question. "Wait, how old is Snape?"

What little color Malfoy's face normally held drained away as his jaw dropped. "You think he might've been one of Riddle's classmates?"

"I think it's possible. Maybe he's just still looking for an answer to solve some psychological puzzle he's been unable to put together himself. I mean . . . ." She took a step closer and dropped her voice to a whisper, "If he knew Riddle, and, despite Snape's intellect and his ability to evaluate people, he was just as surprised as everyone else by the murders? He may be looking for someone to pick up on signs that _he_ missed. What do you think?"

"I think it's suddenly become much more unsettling that he assigned a project on Riddle just before a body fitting the pattern of Riddle's kills turns up."

Hermione bit her bottom lip hard as she wound her arms around herself, a chill crawling across her skin. "No, he can't be connected to that."

Glancing about quickly, Draco stepped toward her, closing the distance so that he could lower his voice further, still, without her missing any of his words. "But what if he is? I mean, we have no way of knowing what's connected and what isn't with everything that's gone on these last two weeks, but who was the only _other_ person in the basement that first night—that night that seems to have started _everything_?"

Just like that, Snape's droning voice echoed in the back of her skull, _Mr. Malfoy, are you down here?_

"I was the only student in Slytherin Hall that night, and he knew it. What if he was trying to lure me out of the basement—"

"So he could get to that door in the storage room?"

He scowled darkly, his mouth pulling into a tight, grim line. "Who else can come and go from Slytherin Hall at all hours without raising any eyebrows?"

"But . . ." she nervously licked suddenly parched lips as she thought aloud, "if he's connected to Riddle _and_ he's the one accessing that room?"

"So Riddle carved those symbols on the walls, or Snape did, to make a link between Riddle and those graves?"

"Either way, doesn't that mean Riddle _was_ somehow connected to whatever went on in that church so long ago?" Hermione swallowed painfully around the fear lodged in her throat. "Snape is, first and foremost, a man of his field. What . . . what if he thinks recreating one of the crimes might give him insight on Riddle?"

"We're getting carried away," Draco said, his tone mildly reasonable. "Before we make any more suppositions, we should start at the beginning. Check if they _were, _in fact,classmates and work from there. Which means . . . ."

She hung her head. "Back to the library." Never in her life had Hermione imagined she'd dread the notion of going to the library.

* * *

Malfoy dropped his head into his hands. "Okay, okay. We _still_ don't know it's connected at all."

She clicked to close the page and sat back, chewing her lip. "Maybe we should just let this drop. Maybe that's what we should have done from the start, ignored it and walked away."

His eyes drifted closed as he responded in a dull, irritated tone, "And we would have, if weird little signs didn't pop up every time we _mention_ leaving this be."

"You're right."

"I—"

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. "Fine, we keep looking, but where do we go now? I mean, it's not like we can tell anyone."

"We could, it just wouldn't make much sense. 'Hello? Yes, our professor is creepy and may, or may not, be obsessing over Tom Riddle. Oh, and we found this disturbing little room that he may, or may not, be using for some nefarious purpose. _Clearly_ he's the Riddle copycat, go arrest him.'" He let his head fall back as he uttered a frustrated groan. "We don't even _know_ what we know."

Frowning, she pressed a hand against the back of his skull, setting his head straight. "Look maybe there's a simple answer for what to do next."

Darting his gaze around quickly to ensure no one was around to see the action, he turned his face against her hand, nipping at her palm.

She snatched her hand back and glared at him.

"What would this _simple answer_ be?"

"You said yourself that whenever we try to leave this whole mess alone, something pops up to drag us back to it, right?"

"I see, what you're thinking is if we don't do anything, what to do next will find _us_."

"Makes as much sense as anything else that's happened."

"I suppose that's . . . ." A single word drifted across Draco's mind then. Turning back toward the computer, he opened a search engine and typed.

Hermione leaned against his side, reading over his shoulder. "Voldemort? What's that? Has a creepy ring to it."

"Not a what, a _who_. At least, I think it's a who," he muttered as he clicked the search button. "I don't know why, but I completely forgot about it 'til just now. I found this scratched into the broken headstone."

She frowned. "There's only one hit?"

"Probably bullshit," he said, his tone lifeless. He should have known it would be a dead end.

Shooing his hand away from the mouse, Hermione clicked on the link herself. The scanned image of an old photocopied article opened before them.

"It looks like a piece on old urban legends."

"I believe the term for 'old urban legend' is 'folk tale', Granger."

She refrained from rolling her eyes. "Okay, shut up. The name Voldemort appears only once throughout history as a . . . ." Hermione let go of the mouse and fell back in her chair, her unblinking gaze dropping into her lap.

Alarmed by her reaction, Draco looked from her ashen face to the screen. " . . . As a," his voice took on a hollow tone, "as a priest burned at the stake for witchcraft. Voldemort was branded a heretic and condemned for crimes against God and the church."

"That's why his grave was _outside_ the cemetery, away from the others."

They exchanged a glance before he returned to reading. "The little-heard story goes that a young woman, claiming to have been a nun turned up on the doorstep of a revered town elder name Dumbledore. She claimed that Voldemort led the clergy of the church into . . . " he forced a gulp down his throat. "Into sinful congress with unholy spirits. When the elder refused to believe her, she offered evidence of abuse at Voldemort's hands. Possible occult symbols had been carved into her arms, one still fresh, the others in various states of healing. She said he had—" Draco's words dropped off sharply.

Hermione didn't want to look at the screen, didn't want to read it for herself. Instead she met Malfoy's gaze.

"He sacrificed the others." He leaned closer, whispering, "All _eleven_ of them."

"Eleven," she echoed in a hollow voice. "So those graves definitely _are_ the clergy. _Plus_ Voldemort makes twelve, and the girl, his . . . his _bride_, she makes—"

"Thirteen," he nodded, blue eyes tracing over her sleeve-covered upper arm, over where that horrible mark had only just faded away.

In a snap decision, he turned back toward the computer and clicked _Print._

"Why are you doing that?"

"I want a physical copy of this on hand," he explained, reaching over to retrieve the page the moment it was finished printing. "Out of everything we_ think_ we know, we have nothing to hold onto. Now we do."

"So wait," she murmured, thoughtlessly resting a hand over his forearm as her eyes drifted closed. "Eleven, plus Voldemort at the church. Riddle, _plus_ eleven of his classmates . . . ."

* * *

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Lavender breathed out in a hysterical whisper.

Why did she have to be standing at _just_ this angle? Why did she have to select_ just_ this book?

As she'd slid the thick text from the shelf, a head of perfect platinum hair came into view at the far side of the library. Glancing about the nearly empty place, she'd then leaned her face toward the bookcase to get a better look.

There they were, Hermione and Malfoy, researching. Or, at least, that was how it appeared. But then Hermione became visibly upset. And he said something to her, whatever it was, his accompanying expression was serious . . . though perhaps _somber_ was a more fitting term.

And she touched his arm! She put her hand on his arm and _left _it there. Like that was a normal thing for them!

That was when Lavender burst out in panicked whispering.

"Oh my God, what?"

Harry's voice made her jump and she clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking. Hurriedly stuffing the book back into place with her free hand, she spun on a heel to face him.

"You scared me!"

His eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "I scared you? You're the one talking to a book shelf."

"I just realized I . . . forgot to eat lunch. Let's go grab a bite. Are you hungry? Of course you are! You're a boy, you're always hungry." Her words were running together as she rushed forward and hooked her arm through Harry's, turning him toward the exit. "C'mon let's go find Ron, he's always hungry, too."

"Did you hit your head or something?" he asked in a mystified tone as he let her lead him from the library.

As she giggled airily and chatted about how she couldn't _believe_ he didn't know that this was how she got when she missed a meal, a little voice in the back of her mind puzzled over what she'd just done. Harry was right here, and there was his best friend, being touchy-feely with his enemy, the perfect opportunity and yet . . . .

And yet, Lavender couldn't bring herself to let him see that.

_Good God, what's wrong with me?_ She wondered if the Grinch in that Christmas story had felt this confused in the moment that his heart had grown three sizes.

* * *

"But one of Voldemort's people got away. He killed eleven people, and then was murdered, himself," Malfoy said, scrambling for any proof that would either connect _or_ separate the two events; he wasn't certain he cared which, anymore, as long as they found answers. "Riddle is killed, and _then_ there are eleven suicides. The numbers are the same, but not the circumstances. Come to think of it, the numbers _aren't_ the same, either."

"Unless there _was_ a number thirteen with Riddle who, like Voldemort's bride, simply didn't die with the others."

"I think the chances of finding Riddle's number thirteen, if there _is_ one, are slim unless we're able to talk to their ghosts." He offered a humorless smile, "And I'm not about to get a Ouija board."

She sat up a little straighter in her seat, her hand finally—why had neither noticed until now that she was still touching him—slid away from his arm. "Not a Ouija board, those things never work the way you need them to, anyway. But . . . have you ever heard of a ghost box?"

Draco's brows shot up his forehead as he gave her a questioning look.


	13. The Ghost Box

**Chapter Thirteen**

The Ghost Box

Oh, yes, this one is perfect_, the servant thought gleefully as he watched her move across the darkened grounds._

_It was stronger now; surely It would recognize the significance of such an offering._

_Recognize that, and be _pleased.

Yes_, he thought, a wicked grin curving his lips as he slid from his hiding place and crept silently after her. He could smell her blood, could hear the drum of her pulse. This one _fit_._

_Everything would fall into place, now, he assured himself. He drifted closer, still; so close he could detect the sweet, floral fragrance of her hair._

* * *

"And this is supposed to do what, again?" Malfoy asked, his face scrunched as he examined the small, square-ish radio. He hadn't really been listening the first time, he was far too busy focusing his tired brain on _not_ watching her lips move while she talked.

Rolling her eyes, Hermione plucked the box from his hands—strangely uncertain if she'd accidentally brushed her fingers over his, or done it on purpose—and set it on the ground between them. "_This _continuously scans frequencies. Doing so allows the box to create white noise and audio remnants from various broadcast stations, which, according to theory, entities can manipulate in order to form words or sentences."

"Right, sure," he grumbled, leaning back against the crumbling wall of the church. "Sounds like rubbish."

She frowned at him, the darkness around them making the downward turn of her mouth more severe. "It doesn't hurt to try. If the responses are gibberish, or have nothing to do with the questions we ask, then we . . ." offering a hopeless shrug, she waved a hand, "scrap this idea and wait for the next one, I suppose."

He stretched, folding his arms behind his head as he watched her fiddle with the box before finally switching it on. Honestly, earlier in the library when she'd suggested meeting behind the church that night—which was, admittedly, the moment he stopped listening—he'd hoped she had a slightly different purpose in mind.

Oh well, they'd probably get to _that _eventually, anyway.

"Where did you get that thing so fast?"

She kept her gaze on the radio as she spoke, "My ex-boyfriend Cormac is into this sort of stuff. So I asked him if I could borrow it for an assignment."

Draco let his eyelids drift down, ignoring the irritation—slight, _slight _irritation—that rippled through him as he smirked. "Had to exchange a _favor,_ did you?"

The radio sputtered and hissed, but didn't seem to do much more than give off static-like clicks.

Hermione looked up at him, eyebrows lifting as she mirrored his expression. "Is that jealousy I hear, Malfoy?"

His eyes opened at her mocking tone, meeting her gaze. Fine, he supposed he should have expected that. "Not on your life, Granger," he replied in a murmur; two could play the _I Remember What Y_ou S_aid _game.

_Yes . . . jealous._

They each gave a start, their attention dropping to the box. It groaned and spewed fuzzy crackling sounds.

"Did . . . ." Hermione drew a breath and then exhaled slowly, goose bumps prickling across her skin. "Did _you _just say jealous?"

_Yes._

She looked to Malfoy once more—whose eyes darted from her, to the box, and back as his arms dropped to his sides—before she crawled around the noisy device and sat closer him. The decision went entirely against her own better judgment, but she didn't like the feeling of being _so s_eparate, of being so physically alone, as a wheezing voice rattled through the air.

"You mean _you're _jealous?"

_Yes . . . I . . . jealous._

"Jealous of what?" As soon as the words fell from her lips, she could feel Draco's eyes boring into the side of her head. "Somebody has to ask," she whispered out the corner of her mouth.

_Flesh, breath . . . so jealous_.

"Yes, 'cause that's not creepy at all," he said, his voice barely audible, but his low pitch didn't stop her from slapping him on the thigh to hush him up.

"Alright. I'm terribly sorry you're . . . no longer, um, fleshy and breathing?" She cringed, realizing how lame and awkward she sounded, but she had no idea what else to say to such an unsettling statement. "But we need to ask some questions, if we may?"

_You may . . . girl._

"And it knows you're a girl." His disbelief had turned to unease in a blink, and that unease was mounting the longer they sat listening to the buzzing crackle of white noise between hissed words. "Fan_tastic_."

"I wasn't aware we had reason to think it _couldn't_ see us," she whispered.

He leaned closer, his chin over her shoulder as he said in her ear, "That's not what I meant. What if it doesn't mean jealous in the context you think? If it sees us now, it might've seen us the other night, too." To emphasize the point he was trying to make, Draco reached a hand beneath her hair, stroking a fingertip down the back of her neck. He tipped his face down so that his breathe washed over the side of her throat as he spoke, "Jealous of flesh and breath."

Hermione eyelids fluttered in a series of rapid blinks as she repressed a tremble. This was hardly the time for him to behave this way—and certainly not the time for her to react to such behavior—but she understand his meaning.

"Let's just move on and not think about that," she whispered, pretending she wasn't suddenly hyper-aware of his closeness.

He only nodded in response.

Again she drew a deep breath, giving her head a small shake and returned to her conversation with the box. "Do you know the name Tom Riddle?"

There was a long slow hiss and she couldn't help shrinking back against Malfoy.

_Yeeeeesss_.

Closing her eyes, she forced a small gulp down her throat and shook her head. "Do you know of his crimes?"

_Blood . . . so much blood._

She froze, unable to think anymore. The most disturbing image of Tom Riddle soaking in a tub of blood, like some male Elizabeth Bathory flashed through her mind.

When she remained silent, Draco sighed heavily, not really wanting to take over talking to this . . . whatever it was. "Do you know the name Voldemort?"

The box emitted a strange, sobbing wail. Hermione pulled away further, still. Any more of this and she'd end up in Draco's lap, and she wasn't even certain she cared.

"I—I think we upset it."

He rolled his eyes, his customary scowl slipping into place. He wanted this over with, now. "Clearly you know of him."

_Y—yes, yes, yesss. _The response was so low they barely heard it over the static.

"Is there a connection between Riddle and Voldemort?"

The voice let out another horrible, keening whine and she couldn't help thinking that it seemed the entity was in pain.

He must've detected that same note, she realized as he pressed in a harsh whisper, "Just answer that and we'll leave you be!"

Again, it whined miserably, but shorter and softer, this time. The sound of someone giving up. _Blood of the twelve._

_"_The blood of the twelve," Draco echoed, turning his head briefly to share a quick, unsettled glance with Hermione. "What does that mean?"

It made an odd, hollow snarling noise, like a wild animal backed into a corner. _Look to the blood of the twelve._

The box shot forward, crashing against the wall beside them and he jumped, pushing her behind him.

She peered over his shoulder at the device, a tremor running through her as she pressed her palms against his back, looking for something—anything—solid and still to steady her.

"We'd better go," he murmured, chancing a look around as he scooped up the box.

Nodding weakly, she waited until he rose, her hands slipped from him as he moved, and then braced her back against the wall and pulled her feet under her, slowly pushing herself up to stand. She needed the support, and she didn't imagine Draco Malfoy would help her up.

She supposed they should find it a small relief that all the noise that stupid thing made hadn't alerted Hagrid and Filch. A shuffling sound drew her attention and she felt her body sag.

"What is that?"

In front of her, Draco went completely still, listening. "I'm not sure, but . . . I think it's coming from inside the church."

Hermione gripped her fingers into the back of his shirt, her voice tiny as it tumbled out from between her lips. "Please, let's not look."

His shoulders slumped as he looked back at her.

Two weeks ago, she'd believed herself a brave person. Now, though, she understood she was acting like a coward. She was absolutely terrified to peek in at what might be moving around inside that church, and she didn't care who knew it.

"I can't. It's been too much, for one night, please."

Malfoy frowned, as he turned on a heel to face her, pressing the radio into her hands. "I'm just going to look through the window, that's all."

Realizing quickly that she wasn't going to change his mind, she nodded, determinedly dropping her eyes to the box. Oh, and this thing _looked_ like it had smacked into a wall. She could worry later about what to tell Cormac. Given his interest in the paranormal, maybe she could simply tell him a ghost did it, and hope he didn't think she was mocking him.

Though she didn't want to, she turned to watch Draco as he neared the window. The shuffling came again, and she steeled herself against the urge to follow him, to peer through the cracks in the stained glass, as well. She was going to stick to her cowardice, tonight.

He bent toward the window, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the shapes inside. "Nothing seems to be moving," he whispered, but an idea had stuck as his gaze darted about the strange, darkened structure.

Straightening up, he turned back to face her, his mouth tugged to one side in an odd half-frown as he studied her expression. "I have a thought," he began, purposely leaving off the rest of the statement.

Wide, chestnut eyes moved from him to the window behind him and back. "You can't be serious. I'm not going in there!"

"Not now," he hissed, squinting in a way that made her wonder if he was questioning her intelligence. "But if the priest leading the congregation here was burned for witchcraft, that's probably the last time the place was used."

She shrugged, interrupting thoughtlessly, "That's probably also why no one knows the Voldemort's story—no one in their right mind would have bought the land it's on."

"You're right."

"I—"

"_Anyway_," he rushed on, knowingly cutting her off, but mildly relieved to see her behaving more like herself, again, "if they're the last clergy to have served the church, there might still be things of theirs inside."

"Damn, you're right."

He smirked. "I—"

"Do we really need to keep doing that?" Hermione tried to keep her tone even; to not let slip that he'd almost gotten a laugh out of her.

Turning away, he started walking, "Oh, c'mon, Granger, it's like our _thing_."

With a heavy sigh, she looked over the box again as she fell into step beside him. "So _we_ have a thing, Malfoy?"

Draco gave that a moment's thought as he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "Well, whatever it is, you've got to admit we certainly do always have an interesting time together."

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "Interesting is one way to describe it."

"What do you think it means?"

For a frightening moment, she thought he was asking clearer definition of what _their_ _thing_ was.

"Look to the blood of the twelve," he said quietly, the tone of his voice making the cryptic sentence no less unsettling than the first time they'd heard it.

"Oh, well, I'm not sure." Again her mind mocked her with images of Riddle bathing in rich, crimson liquid, of firelight dancing against the night sky as Voldemort cut symbols into her arms. "The blood of Riddle's victims . . . ."

Her strange, hollow whisper sent a chill dancing up his spine and he turned to see she'd halted. "Granger?"

"I'm sorry," she shook her head, a dreadful numbness inching through her limbs. "I was just thinking that we don't know anything about _how_ Voldemort sacrificed his victims. "

His blue eyes wandered the campus grounds beyond her as he forced himself to speak, "You think Riddle was copying Voldemort?"

A pained expression flitted across her face as her lids drifted closed. "I think what we don't know about all this still outweighs what we _do _know. Greatly."

"But Riddle only had ten actual victims, the suicides afterward can't count in this context."

He was right, but she wasn't about to say it—this wasn't the time for their _thing_—instead, she pointed out something they'd not considered, "But only because Lily Evans killed him. We don't know how many more victims Riddle would have claimed."

Draco groaned, wiping a hand over his face. "I can't believe either of can still think on this level after two weeks of sleeping an hour a night."

"Have you been eating?"

"I . . ." his shoulders drooped. "You know, I don't remember the last time I ate."

"Same for me," she murmured, suddenly more troubled by the thought. "You realize that we're . . . it's like we're fasting without meaning to. Like some people do when they're preparing for deep meditation, or to go into a trance-state."

"Sorry, Granger, this time I don't follow," he said, arching a brow at her.

"Don't you think it's weird that the night in the storeroom, we heard a voice, that was all. Fine, it was spooky and nerve-wracking, but not really traumatic. It's an experience we should've overcome within a few days—an experience I think we _did _overcome within a few days. Yet now we can't sleep longer than two hours a night, no matter how tired we are, and we've stopped eating?"

His expression became icy as his gaze locked on hers. "You think something's doing this to us?"

"How else do you explain that we're both going through the same thing?" She couldn't believe she was saying it, but it was a possibility they'd never considered. "What if something wants us closer to that meditative, trance-like state?"

He offered her a mystified scowl. "For what?"

"Like I know!" She hadn't meant to raise her voice, hadn't meant to stamp her foot, but she'd just done both.

His face hardened at her tone.

Sigh, Hermione hung her head. "Look, I don't have any more idea than you do, but maybe the only reason we've gotten mixed up in this Voldemort-Riddle thing is because of the state we're in. We've been functioning in a state of hyper-awareness for a while now, and how many things would we _not_ have noticed, how many things _wouldn't _have occurred to us, had we been functioning normally?"

He groaned, clasping his hands behind his neck. "I suppose that makes sense . . . in a completely bizarre 'if I wasn't going through it, I'd think you were mad' sort of way."

A giggle burst out of her. "That's exactly my point, though."

"Alright, but I swear, I cannot discuss this anymore, at least not right now." He yawned, letting his arms drop. "Look, we have clear things we need to do; check out the church, look into the deaths—suicides included—try to find the link, but not _now. _We may not be sleeping much, but we still need what little we can get."

Nodding, she turned and started walking again. There was only so long they could stand about in the middle of the quad.

"This really isn't how I'd pictured this night ending," he said, grumbling.

"Oh?" She realized only after she spoke what he meant, "How did you picture it ending?"

His fingers slid around the back of her neck, turning her face toward him and brought his mouth down on hers. He parted her lips with his tongue, and darted inside.

She allowed him only a moment, only a quick caress of her tongue over his, only the briefest graze of her teeth across his bottom lip before she pulled away.

"Are you mad?" She whispered breathlessly, pointedly darting her gaze toward Slytherin Hall and then toward Gryffindor. "What if someone sees?"

He leaned just a bit closer, his lips moving against hers as he whispered back, "Terrifying, isn't it?"

And just like that, he pulled away entirely and turned on a heel, walking off toward Slytherin Hall.

Hermione puffed out her cheeks, letting a deep breath rattle out as she watched him go. Wasn't this the same spot where he'd left her all flustered and then walked off the other night they'd been on the church grounds, too?

She was really developing some terrible habits when it came to Draco Malfoy.

* * *

There was some commotion going on in the Gryffindor Hall common room when Hermione awoke. She hadn't been aware anything was wrong until she opened the door and found students gathered on the second floor landing.

Turning her attention toward the front door, she found Professor McGonagall in deep conversation with two uniformed police officers. The proper, iron-grey-haired woman always looked serious, yet the expression she wore this morning made her usual sternness feel like warm smiles.

"What's going on?" Hermione whispered as she sidled in between Harry and Parvati.

Harry's green eyes were huge, huge and ringed with dark circles that his glasses just barely hid as he met her gaze. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side.

She thought it an odd gesture until he spoke—until he gave her reason to understand why he thought she'd need support.

"It's Lavender. She's gone missing."


	14. Emotional Turns

**Chapter Fourteen**

Emotional Turns

"I heard they already called her parents, but it sounded like Mr. and Mrs. Brown haven't seen her or heard from her. Her phone, and ID, and all that were still in her room," Hermione said, her words barely above a mumble as she picked at the crust of her sandwich.

And to think, after skipping breakfast, she'd planned to force down some lunch this afternoon. Her mind knew she couldn't go on like this, but her stomach roiled at the very notion of food entering her body until they got at least some scrap of solid information regarding Lavender.

News of a student's disappearance had spread quickly through the small campus, casting a somber hue over the university's entire population. Even Mother Nature seemed aware of the mood, Hermione thought, turning her head to watch drops of rain splash down outside the shop window.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Did anyone else notice that she was behaving sort of strange yesterday?"

"Um, I don't know how else to say this, but isn't Lavender always sort of strange?" Neville asked as he set down his iced coffee.

"I think we all fit that description," Ron murmured.

Hermione gave a small, half-hearted laugh.

Shaking his head, Harry tried for a restatement. "No, what I mean is not like herself. Yesterday she was acting very jumpy; skittish, almost."

"She did seem a bit tense the last few days, I think," Hermione said quietly.

Despite keeping her focus on the conversation, her eyes kept wandering toward a certain pale-haired legacy brat a few tables away. She'd been in a fog much of the morning. In the few classes she shared with Lavender, she felt keenly aware of the girl's absence, unable to really focus on anything more than the bizarre, out-of-sync emptiness of her friend's seat. Hermione wouldn't have noticed if Draco Malfoy had strutted down the corridor naked.

. . . Well, she probably would have snapped out of her fog for _that_, but since she didn't recall any such event, she highly doubted that had happened.

At the table where she usually sat with her friends, she most often faced the coffee shop door. Today, however, the boys had already piled in and settled by the time she'd arrived, so she'd not seen _him_ come in, only giving a brief start when he entered her line of sight and took a seat.

Every so often, his head would turn in her direction, just ever so slightly, but before actually looking at her, he'd snap his attention back to whatever his obnoxious Slytherin friends were discussing. She wanted to think he'd sat there on purpose, knowing she could see him, yet his infuriating lack of acknowledgment made confirming that impossible.

And dear_ God_, the way Pansy kept batting her eyes at Draco made Hermione want to vomit.

Ron's gaze darted about before he leaned over the table a little to speak in a whisper, "Have the police talked to any of you yet?"

Harry exchanged a glance with Hermione as she pretended she didn't see him slide a strip of bacon out of her sandwich and onto his plate. "No," they replied in unison.

Neville shook his head as he yawned, his usual lunchtime meal of grilled chicken and chips untouched.

"Isn't that what they're supposed to do, though? Talk to the missing person's friends?"

Ron sounded agitated, Hermione observed with a frown. They were all agitated, and worried, and perhaps even scared, but he seemed particularly upset.

"I think Professor McGonagall might've asked the police to wait until after afternoon classes are over unless it's urgent, so there's as little disruption as possible."

The ginger-haired young man sat up straight, his face scrunching up. "Our friend is missing, I think that requires a little disruption!"

Harry, Hermione and Neville looked around the table at one another before all three turned bewildered expressions on Ron. "We're all worried, Ron, okay? I only meant—"

"I know," he hung his head as he went on. "I know what you meant. I'm— I'm sorry, I just . . . . I feel really guilty, is all."

Hermione's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she tried to sort out his words. "Why should you feel guilty?"

"_Because_ I'm worried about her."

Harry held up a hand, "Ron, stop, that doesn't make any sense."

"Harry's right," Hermione said, offering a wan smile. "Maybe you're just tired, so you're not thinking cle—"

"It makes perfect sense!" Ron's voice raised as his eyes locked on Hermione's, "How is it okay for me to be _so_ worried about her when I'm still not over you!"

Every sound in their immediate vicinity fell away.

"Smooth, Ron," Harry whispered, lifting his glass in a mocking, one-sided toast.

Hermione could only cringe, positive she could feel gazes from every patron in the shop turn to press on them. Every patron, but _one_.

Between Ron and Neville's heads, Hermione could see Draco, could see the way his face was turned down to look at the plate before him as he picked at something. Even with his attention trained away from her offering her only his profile, she could see that familiar scowl fit over his features.

She spared a moment to wonder if it was odd that his lack of reaction spoke volumes.

Ron looked properly abashed as he hunched his shoulders dropped his gaze to the table. "Sorry."

Clearing her throat as the coffee shop sprang back to life around them, Hermione tried for a civil tone. "You can't be serious. _We _have been over for how long, now?"

"But that's what I mean. Maybe if I hadn't been thinking about someone else, I might have noticed if something weird was going on with her."

Hermione took a deep breath, and sat back. "Okay, I understand what you're feeling—we're all wondering if we weren't paying enough attention, if _we_ missed something important about Lavender—but _this? _This was not the way to say it." To push the point that this was not a matter open for discussion, she grabbed her bag and pulled the strap over her shoulder. "And most _certainly_ not the time."

Slipping from her seat, she stormed out of the shop. She was nearly positive she _did_ feel Draco's gaze on her then, but she was afraid to turn and look back.

* * *

For a while, she did well ignoring everything around her, unfortunately, that included her professors' lessons, as she alternately worried over Lavender and wished she could go back in time and stop Ron from making that declaration.

But then Snape's class rolled around. She hadn't even had the freedom to think about sitting in _Snape's_ presence—after the very unsettling suppositions Draco and she had made about the man—when she arrived at the door. That thought almost made having to go take her seat beside Malfoy seem a pleasant thing.

_Almost . . . ._

For a few moments, Hermione simply stared at the entrance, unable to move as she actually did consider slamming her hand against something just so she wouldn't have to go in there.

Someone large bumped her aside as they walked into the room and she looked up to see the high, bulky shoulders of Vincent Crabb lumber past. Of course, he didn't say _excuse me_, or toss an apology over his shoulder.

Understand suddenly how ridiculous she was being—after all, she was going to have to deal with this eventually—Hermione squared her shoulders, plucked up her courage, and entered the class.

Draco must've been watching the door, waiting for her, she realized, as his gaze met hers for only a second before dropping to the book open before him. She pretended it didn't sting to wonder if he'd been waiting for the moment she set foot inside so that he could deliberately avoid looking at her.

She didn't care what he thought, she reminded herself, her inner-voice stern as she cross the room and slid into her seat. Yet somehow, despite that thought, as she began fishing out her text and tablet, words began falling from her mouth, seemingly of their own accord.

"Ron's just upset about Lavender," she whispered, her gaze trained on her desk. "There's nothing to what he said."

"I don't care," he replied tonelessly, his voice exactly as low and controlled as hers.

"Really?" She couldn't help it, not when the look that had crossed his face in the shop floated before her mind's eye. "Because I saw your expression, and—"

"I said I don't _care_, Granger." His mouth pulled into a tight, angry line, his eyebrows inching upward. "We don't owe each other explanations, do we? Nothing emotional between us, right?"

"No, no, of course not," she said quickly, recalling the terms of their arrangement.

She briefly flicked her gaze over her shoulder. There Pansy Parkinson sat, every now and again looking from up some discussion with Seamus that was clearly boring her half-to-death, to glance longingly at Draco.

Turning her attention back to opening her text, she decided to test something. "If it helps at all . . . every time I see Pansy giving you Bambi eyes, I feel like smacking her face against something."

She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. Worry immediately followed as his expression remained icy.

But then, one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

Hermione sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from smiling. No, no, his reaction was _not_ supposed to set off the giddy sensation of butterflies in her stomach; he was right, they weren't supposed to care.

His expression cooled when Professor Snape walked in. As far as Draco was concerned, they'd not ruled out his involvement in whatever was going on. Nor had he been able to fully deny her suggestion that something was intentionally causing whatever was happening to them. Since that morning, he'd left behind two untouched plates of food that he'd had every intention of eating to attest to that.

"Miss Granger," Snape droned, reading from a paper in his hand as he moved behind his desk. "Please . . . report to the dean's office after class."

Her gaze snapped up instantly to lock on their teacher. He paid her no mind as he dove into the lesson, dictating this page number, and that subject matter.

_This has to be about_ _Lavender_, she thought dully, her stomach twisting.

Her mood changed so quickly, Draco thought he could sense it. Against his better judgment, he shifted over, incrementally, barely noticeable to anyone else. Just enough that his thigh pressed lightly against hers.

She turned her head quickly, but her gaze didn't follow, seeming to barely acknowledge the touch. For a moment, he thought the intent had gone unnoticed, but the set of her shoulders eased and she settled back in her seat.

He scowled as he turned his attention to Snape's lesson. Her agitated state had made him agitated . . . yes, that was it—he'd only sought to offer her a modicum of comfort because he did not like agitation.

Yes, that was exactly it, he assured himself. His attempt at a soothing gesture wasn't about _her_ in the slightest.

* * *

Hermione felt impossibly small as she stared back at the severe looking man _casually _leaning against McGonagall's desk. Certainly, he was trying to appear friendly, and made the effort to put her at ease, but it was not working. God, had never wished she could go back to being a legally-protected minor more in her life—she'd give anything to have her parents to duck behind, right now.

His partner—an older, slightly rounded gentleman with the odd name Fudge—gazed out the window, as though disinterested in her and pleasantly observing the campus grounds.

"Miss Granger," the imposing one began—he had an equally odd name, Shackle-something—gracing her with a light smile. "Is there anything you can tell us about your friend Lavender?"

"Anything like what?" It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out her observation from lunch, but she wasn't going to offer them anything they didn't specifically ask of her.

He drew a sigh, and she guessed she wasn't the only one who'd played semantics with them today. His own fault for not taking the IQ of the average Rowling student into account, she thought.

"Did you notice anyone paying her particular attention recently? Had she gotten into any fights, or arguments with anyone?" He pressed on as she shook her head in answer to both questions, "Did you notice any changes in her behavior?"

"Well," she glanced from him, to his partner, and back. "She did seem a bit off the last few days."

"Off how?" Fudge asked, turning away from the window.

"Tense, like something was troubling her, I think."

"Hmm," Shackle . . . bolt? Yes, yes, that was it, Shacklebolt said, swiping a hand across the top of his gleaming, bald head. "Do you have any idea why that might have been?"

"No," she frowned. "Lavender keeps a lot of things to herself until she's ready to say something. Then, it all just sort of—"

"Miss Granger," Fudge's voice cut in with an air of authority. Immediately she understood that Shacklebolt was _not_ the one in charge. "Early this morning, you were seen returning to Gryffindor Hall."

Hermione froze instantly, her heart dropping into her stomach.

_"What if someone sees?"_

_Draco leaned just a bit closer, his lips moving against hers as he whispered back, "Terrifying, isn't it?"_

"I don't understand," she whispered numbly, surprised she managed to force her vocal cords to work. "What does that—"

"Well, it has been mentioned that you and Miss Brown had a feud."

"That was back in secondary school," she said, her tone suddenly confident. If they thought they'd intimidate her into giving them information she didn't have by drudging up the past, they had another thing coming! "Lavender and I have been friends for _months_, now."

"So then what were you doing out, alone, last night when your friend went missing, Miss Granger?"

_How did it come to this_, she wondered, in a bit of a daze as she stared up Shacklebolt. He might speak more kindly, but his suspicion was no less obvious. Tell them about Draco, or implicate herself in her friend's disappearance?

It seemed her answer should be obvious, yet she hesitated. Dropping her gaze to the floor, Hermione gnawed on her lip for a long, painfully quiet moment before she could force out the words.

"I wasn't alone, I was with someone. And it's just . . . . My best friend, Harry, he doesn't know. We've had to sneak around 'cause my friends sort of hate him. Like I'm . . . . supposed to hate him," she concluded, her voice barely above a whisper.

That was odd. Just the other day, she'd loathed him so much she wouldn't have spit on him to put him out if he'd been on fire. Now, however . . . well, _now_ she still didn't quite like him, but she wasn't entirely certain how much she hated him, anymore.

If not for the two men boring holes into the top of her head, she might've taken the time to wonder what exactly had happened to cause that shift.

"So you were out with a boy?"

She repressed the strong urge to groan and roll her eyes at them. Were they purposely making the students sound so very young?

"Yes."

"We'll need his name."

Hermione looked at them in turn, once more. She knew they were going to ask, knew they had to ask. Even so, it took a bit more of their suspicious, inquiring stares before she could respond.

Slumping back in the chair, she hid her face behind her hands as she muttered, "Draco Malfoy."

"Lucius Malfoy's kid?"

"Bollocks," Shacklebolt said tightly, losing his cool demeanor for just a second.

She peeked through her fingers at the men's faces. She couldn't make heads or tails of their expressions. Were they afraid, or angry?

"Miss Granger, you can wait outside," Fudge offered a poorly feigned smile as he gestured toward the door.

Nodding stiffly, Hermione peeled herself out of the plush armchair and exited the room.

"Better keep it civil and light, Fudge," she heard Shacklebolt warn before the door closed. "The last thing we want is to give that arrogant bastard putting his nose in the middle of this."

_Lucius Malfoy, arrogant bastard?_ She thought with a small laugh as she took a seat in the main office. _I suppose some personality traits_ are _genetic._

Sighing heavily, she pulled a text from her bag and cracked it open in her lap.

* * *

As soon as he stepped into the larger office that lead to the dean's he saw her, her head tipped down as she read some book or another. He'd known the moment she'd been told to come here what would happen.

She'd been out late last night, her friend had gone missing. It didn't take a genius to put it together. In fact, he'd been patiently waiting in the Slytherin Hall common room for someone to summon him back to main building.

As he approached, she looked up, chestnut eyes wide. _Sorry_, she mouthed, looking deliciously innocent. Clearly she thought he'd be angry with her. Well, if that's what she expected . . . .

Oh, yes, then for this he was going to make her squirm.

He only frowned at her, striding past and knocking on the door. From the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers twisting the cuffs of her sleeves. Draco held in a grin, purposely scowling as the door opened, and he stepped into the room.

* * *

Hermione watched the door for what seemed forever before it opened. Shacklebolt and Fudge both gave her a quick, unreadable once-over as Draco stalked out of the office.

Fudge cleared his throat awkwardly as he plucked a card from his wallet and held it out to her. "Yes, well, that's all . . . cleared up now. Should you think of anything that might help, anything at all, call us."

Nodding, she took the card, mystified by their change in attitude. Certainly Draco was a Malfoy, but there was no way he had the standing to ruffle their feathers. She forced herself to remain still until they retreated into the dean's office and closed the door.

Shoving her book away as she scrambled out of the seat, she hurried through the exit after Draco.

There he was, not far ahead, strolling lazily down the vacant corridor. Platinum hair set against his usual perfect black turtle neck, he was beacon.

"Malfoy," she hissed in a whisper as she caught up to him.

"Hmm?" He didn't turn to look at her, only continuing at his bored, and leisurely pace.

"What did you say to them?"

"Oh, that." He shrugged, giving her a sideways glance. "I last night we were sleeping together."

Stunned, Hermione stopped in her tracks, convinced she must've misheard him. "You . . . you said . . . . _What?_"

Turning on a heel to face her, he let a slow grin curve his lips. She really was easy to toy with. Taking a step toward her, he leaned close, whispering in her ear, "I told them we were _far_ too busy fucking to notice anything else."

He pulled back only enough for his eyes to lock on hers. All she could do was stare back at him, her mouth hanging open a little as a blush tinted her cheeks.

"It'll be true soon enough, won't it?" Draco held her gaze as he asked.

Without waiting her to respond, he turned away, disappeared into one of the stairwell doors.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, groaning inwardly. She'd have _loved _to have told him no, but she was pretty sure they would both know she was lying.

"God, I hate him," she said, balling her hands into fists.

"Good to know that's all still in order."

Malfoy's voice made her jump; she noticed only now that he'd lingered in the doorway.

"Now, are you coming?"

She tipped her head to one side as she looked at him questioningly.

"Oh, well, clearly not at the moment," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her as he waved a hand in an _after you_ gesture. "We should see to that."

The meaning of his words shot through her like a jolt of electricity, setting off that sweet, warm pulse between her thighs and she forced a breath. Nodding slowly, Hermione let Draco lead her out of the corridor.


	15. Uncertain Realities

**Working on a Post-Battle of Hogwarts fic **_**Nights at Malfoy Manor**_**, which is going to run the opposite direction of **_**The Scavengers—**_**whereas this fic is plot-heavy from the very beginning, which has led to the steamy content developing later on, **_**Nights**_**, while having a dark plot, starts off with steaminess and the plot will be developing as the story goes along. This fic is separate from the other fic I mentioned starting soon (**_**The 5th House**_**), and will not interfere with the production of**_** The Scavengers**_**.**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

Uncertain Realities

Lavender's eyes fluttered open, slowly, with effort. Her lids felt so _very_ heavy. Everything look strange—globby, sort of fuzzy around the edges—until a face came into view, hovering above hers in the soft, sparsely illuminated darkness.

His brown hair was neatly swept back, and she could make out the edge of a shirt collar, but his unshaven state gave the impression of sleepless nights.

She pulled at her shoulders, attempting to sit up, wondering dimly why her arms and legs wouldn't move.

"Shh," he whispered, wiping gentle fingers across her brow and smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "Don't fret, you're safe, pretty one."

Her eyes drifted closed again. Keeping them open was such a struggle. In the back of her mind, she understood that she should be alarmed, that there was no way whatever was happening around her was correct, or _safe, _yet she couldn't force herself to care.

"Where am I?"

He uttered a small, strangely endearing chuckle as his fingertips stroked down the insides of her arms.

She thought that odd, as well, hadn't she been wearing long sleeves? Lavender shifted her body, but only a little—it was all she had the strength to manage. There was no tug of clothing between her and the surface upon which she lay, no press of fabric against her skin.

Alarm washed through her, but as quickly as it appeared, it was tamped down by how very relaxed and drowsy she was.

"You are where you belong, Eleven."

"Eleven," she echoed in a mumble, dragging her lids open once more. "That's not my name, it's a number."

"I-i-t-t . . . i-i-s-s . . . w-w-h-h-a-a-t-t . . . y-y-o-o-u-u . . . a-a-r-r-e-e."

She forced her head to turn, exhausted by the effort, as she searched the darkness for the unnerving, mingled voices. "I don't understand."

"Shh, shh, shh," the man said again, grasping her hand in his for a moment, in what she almost thought was a gesture of comfort. "_You_ don't need to understand."

He turned her wrist upward and suddenly pain shot through her arm.

Lavender whimpered, trying to pull out of his grasp. "What are you doing to me?"

"That is something else you don't need to understand," he murmured, the gentle cadence of his voice disturbing. "But, if you're really so curious," he glanced from whatever he was doing, up to her face, and back, "I will show you."

He slid a hand beneath her neck, cupping the back of her skull to raise her head.

A trembling gasp escaped her lips as her gaze traveled the length of her own nude form, over thick straps that held her in place, to her arm. He held her wrist delicately with his other hand, lifting it into her range of sight. A thin tube pierced the skin, crimson liquid seeping out of her and down, beyond the lip of the table upon which she lay.

She could see her upper part of her other arm, shuddered as a glint of metal caught her eye. Malformed fingers gripped her elbow as the blade dragged, sending ripples of pain through her entire body.

Lavender tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak, hiccuping squeal. "Pl-please stop!"

"Shh, shh," the man said, easing her head down on the table and once more smoothing her hair back. "Just rest. This will be over soon."

She shook her head, straining against the weight of her own limbs, whining behind closed lips at the agonizing tugging of the blade through her flesh. Slowly, the pain ebbed, and despite her struggle to stay awake, she felt herself drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Hermione frowned, ignoring the gazes that followed her as Draco led her up the stairs of Slytherin Hall. She'd be surprised if they didn't frisk her to be certain she wasn't stealing on her way out. She just counted herself lucky that most of the Hall's occupants were elsewhere.

It was nerve-wracking enough that he'd convinced her—she still wasn't entirely certain how—to return to this accursed place. He'd reminded her that only they and Snape knew they'd turned in their first assignment early, so they had the entire weekend to use their research as an excuse for disappearing together.

But then he continued on past the rooms and further down the winding corridor.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he said simply, stopping before a door at the end and listening.

He held up a hand, cautioning her as he turned the knob, pulled the door open and poked his head inside.

Forcing a gulp down her throat, she gave a cursory glance over her shoulder, assuring herself that no one was about.

"All right, it's empty." He opened the door fully and nodded inside.

She looked at the flight of stairs and raised a brow. Now that she thought on it, she'd never really wondered where the entrance to Gryffindor's attic was. Really, she only frequented the main areas and her own room; that decision was based more in the inherent spookiness of the campus buildings than any wish not to explore.

"You could have just said 'the attic,'" she pointed out.

He smirked, nodding inside once more. "Just go on."

Shaking her head, Hermione stepped through the entryway and started up the stairs. The unexpected slap on the bottom he gave tore a surprised yelp from her lips. She turned her head, glaring at him over her shoulder..

Draco responded with that smug, infuriating grin—the one she told herself she still absolutely hated now as much as she had a near three weeks ago, before this had all started—as he stepped in and locked the door behind him.

Reaching the top step, she found herself looking into a plush lounge area; marble coffee table, dark leather furniture and, of course, vending machines. "God, you guys really are spoiled," she hissed before she could stop the words from slipping out.

"Funny thing is, nobody even uses this room all that much."

"Oh, like that's supposed to make me think of you lot as any less—"

He spun her around and pulled her close, covering her mouth with his. Gripping a hand into her hair, he tipped her head to one side, sucking and nipping at her lower lip.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, feigning a severe expression. "I'm eventually going to get tired of shutting you up."

She drew a trembling breath and let it out slowly. "So then I should just stop talking altogether?"

"And rob me of opportunities to give your mouth something better to do?" He smirked once more as he moved away to take a seat on the sofa and crooked a finger at her. "Absolutely not."

Biting her lip uncertainly, she stepped closer, moving slowly as she straddled his lap and settled against him. "So this is sort of strange, isn't it?"

"What is?" He unbuttoned her shirt, sweeping it open.

"It's day time. We can _see_ each other . . . we're _in_doors. That's sort of . . . all new."

Draco grazed his teeth over one satin-covered nipple, grinning at the gasp it coaxed from her. "Am I hearing a sudden objection?"

"That's not what I meant," she whispered, her tone breathy as she gripped her fingers into his hair.

"Oh," grasping her hips, he held her to him and turned, pinning her beneath him on the sofa. "Then what?"

"It just—" she gasped, her eyelids fluttering as he rolled his hips, pushing himself between her thighs. "I-it makes everything a little more real."

He arched a brow, dropping kisses along her skin as he slid down her body, his knees hitting the floor. Draco looked up, meeting her gaze as he unbuttoned her jeans. "It has felt a little like we've been sleepwalking, hasn't it?"

She nodded, feeling her cheeks warm as she lifted herself, helping him as he tugged her clothing down around her knees. Hermione wanted to hide her face behind her hands, yet she didn't want to stop watching him.

He slid a hand between her thighs, fingers parting her delicately. Pursing his lips, he leaned close, blowing a warm breath over her and she shivered. "Shh, shh," he whispered. "I did say I've been curious about what you taste like, didn't I?"

Clamping her lips together, she nodded again, unable to speak as he ducked beneath her leg, pulling her thighs over his shoulders. He circled her with an arm, once more parting delicate feminine folds.

She couldn't take her eyes from him as his tongue flicked out, stroking her fast and teasingly at first, but then his eyes drifted closed and he buried his mouth against slick, pink flesh.

He sealed his lips around the pulsing little bundle of nerves, lapping and suckling at it. Honestly, he didn't know what was more rewarding, the sound of her soft, whimpering little moans or the way she clutched at his hair, helpless beneath the swirling motions of his tongue.

She wasn't certain what was more unthinkable, that she had Draco Malfoy's mouth between her legs, or that he was _this_ good. Yet he wasn't done with her, and she tensed for a moment as he entered her, slow and deep, with his finger.

A groan escaped his throat as she rocked her hips, pushing against his hand.

She was warm, and wet, and tight as she writhed beneath his mouth and clenched around his plunging finger.

Her muscles trembling, she tensed around him, biting hard into her bottom lip to keep from crying out as she came.

Making a low, satisfied growling sound, he circled the tip of his tongue over her. He stroked hard with each sweep against her, his finger stabbing into her in time with the working of his mouth, until she was spent, rocking beneath his lips once more as she let out tiny, mewling breaths.

When she stilled, he withdrew, slowly, pressing a kiss to each inner thigh before he slipped from between her legs. He simply rested his elbows on the edge of the sofa, watching as she shielded her face with her hands, making no move yet to right her clothing.

A short, embarrassed giggle tore out of her suddenly, causing his eyebrows to shoot up into his hair. "I . . . I can't believe that you just . . . . Oh, _wow_."

"Don't worry, Granger," he said with a smirk as he reached over, tracing teasing circles over her nipple with edge of his thumb. "You'll return the favor soon enough."

Her fingers slipped away from her eyes slowly and she met his gaze. He could tell from her look that she was smiling as she said, "Sure of that, are you?"

His smirk widened into a grin. "Oh, I'm counting on it."

She sprang forward suddenly, pressing a kiss against the side of his throat. Just the quick brush of her lips, a flick of her tongue across his skin, before she leaned back once more to pull her clothes back into place.

"Certainly are sure of _yourself_," she murmured as she sat up, finally, still catching her breath.

He quirked a brow, reaching to running a fingertip over her lips. "You can't say you doubt me."

"I can _say_ whatever I like," she pointed out, catching the tip of his finger between her teeth.

Over his shoulder, she spotted a flurry of motion through the window. Frowning, she just as quickly relinquished her playful hold and stood.

He almost found it amusing, the way her shaky legs faltered beneath her a moment, but the look on her face was too serious for any humor. Instead, he got to his feet and followed her to the window.

Outside on the campus grounds, uniformed security staff seemed to be roaming everywhere. Hermione forced a gulp down her throat. Everything was so real, so much more real than any of it had felt just that morning. The swarm of men patrolling outside was a testament to that.

She frowned, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. Everything _was_ real—her and Draco, the weird dreams connecting them to some shrouded past, Lavender's disappearance.

"Look," he said, his tone low as he pointed toward the church and its little cemetery. Far enough that they looked like ants, but she could see security officers circling the crumbling fence. "There's no way we're going to be able to get in there with these guys everywhere."

"It's going to be like this until Lavender comes back."

He turned from the window to look at her at the same moment as she turned to lift her face toward him. "You think she's going to come back?"

Hermione shrugged, her dark eyes wide. "I have to. When someone goes missing there's only two things that happen, they come back on their own, or they're found."

Draco furrowed his brow. "What's the difference?"

Her lids drifted down against sudden, frightened tears as she realized how terrible she was being. Here she was, having a good time with a guy she was supposed to hate while her friend was out there going through God only knew what.

But then she wasn't entirely certain she had anything to feel terrible about, there was nothing she could do about Lavender. The uncertainty about her own feelings left a cold emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

"If she has to be found," she explained in a whisper, fearing her voice would give out on her any second, "it means something's happened to her, so she _can't_ come back on her own."

He drew a deep breath, rolling his eyes as he—against his own better judgment—slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as she wept.


	16. Falsehoods

**For readers who prefer no wait time for 'naughty bits' in their fic reading, check out my newly posted story **_**Nights at Malfoy Manor. **_**It is not PwP, but the more **_**mature **_**content is given equal ground to the plot, so just as much attention will be paid to that sort of content as to the serious stuff.**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Falsehoods

Draco dropped the box on the table, a plume of dust rising from the impact.

Hermione coughed and waved a hand in front of her face. She shot him an unhappy look.

"Sorry," he said with a chuckle.

Her lips pinched, trying to hide a grin. "No, you're not."

"All right, no, I'm not." He shrugged as he took a seat beside her and began pulling papers from the box.

They fell quiet as he shuffled through the pile, discarding what she imagined were the periodicals he already knew were of no use from his previous search. He set a few from the obvious _keep_ pile in front of her and opened the first he'd placed in front of himself.

"There was an article on it, but we might be able to find more information in the obituaries."

Nodding, she flipped through the first few pages. "Will you tell me what you were looking for that day I found you in the storeroom?"

He didn't answer right away and she looked up. His expression tightened as he stared at the print before him. "Turns out sometimes old things like this are more reliable than the internet. You can't erase these words, can't go back and un-write them."

Her brow furrowed, but she only waited for a less muddled response.

"People can keep something from becoming public knowledge by simply _not_ putting it out there. My father shuts down whenever Riddle is mentioned, I was trying to find out why."

"All of our parents do," Hermione said, tipping her head to catch his gaze. "That was always sort of the one thing every one of us had in common growing up."

"No, this is . . . different. You don't know my father, but to call Lucius Malfoy a difficult man is an understatement." He turned the pages idly, but continued to look at her. "If there was something he considered an untouchable subject, he'd state it, outright. No fuss about it. But when it comes to that _entire_ year, he just closes off; won't say a word. I always figured it might be a case he lost. I couldn't find anything about it through any sort of internet archive, so when I found the old papers in the storeroom, I thought they might have something to go on."

She nodded, returning her attention to the paper. "I guess that makes sense." The date caught her attention and she ran the tip of her fingers across it on the page. "That's odd."

"What?" Draco shifted closer to peer over her shoulder.

"Well, we were all about a year old when this all happened, and it just struck me. Ginny and Ron Weasley had an aunt that died this same year."

"Died how?"

Hermione shook her head, "A car crash, I think. We always thought it was such a bizarre coincidence, because Neville also had a relative—a female cousin, I think it was, older—who died in a crash, too. And Lavender. Wait," she bit her lip a moment as she thought. "My friend Luna . . . she's a year younger than us, but her mother died then, too. She was sick; never did know what she was sick _with_, though."

He slid a hand around her upper arm, turning her away from the paper to face him. "My aunt, Bellatrix, died in a car crash that year, too. Pansy, Blaise, Crabb, Goyle . . . we all thought it was funny—" He cut himself off when she gave him a bewildered look. "Not funny ha-ha, funny weird. Anyway, we never thought much of it, but . . . ."

"All of you? And _all _of my friends?" she said, her voice shaking a little. "That _can't_ be a coincidence."

"Didn't Potter's parents die that year, too? Another—what I'm now suspecting is bullshit—car crash?"

"No, that's just the story the public was given," Hermione's words rushed out, thoughtless as she began searching for the obituaries. "Harry's parents were . . . ."

He gave her sidelong glance. "His parents were . . . ?"

"I can't say," she explained, meeting his eyes. "But it definitely wasn't a car crash."

"How did we not see something strange about this sooner?

"I just think it's that we never had reason to look at it before."

His brow furrowed as his gaze slid to the periodicals, so he missed her sudden look of puzzlement. "But not you?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You said 'all of you, and all of _my_ friends,' but no one in your family died that year?"

Her expression shifted from puzzled to troubled. "No one. Something's just occurred to me. I have to tell you something, but you must swear you won't say anything. You _have_ to act like you don't know."

"Very serious tone you're taking, Granger."

She frowned. "Very serious matter, Malfoy."

"Fair enough." He graced her with an eye roll. "I _swear_, I will act as though I don't know anything about what you're going to tell me."

For a long, pained moment, she only held his gaze, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. Hermione opened her mouth, but no words would come. She'd never spoken the words aloud, never thought she would have to, but now, with the chilling notion tumbling through her head, she didn't see she had much choice.

"You remember who Lily Evans is?"

He gave her a withering look. "Of course; even if we _hadn't_ been staring at her name for eight days."

Her eyes drifted closed as she whispered, "I'm so sorry Harry." Opening them, she kept her gaze averted as she went on, her voice only a hint louder. "She was . . . Harry's mother. Lily Evans _Potter_."

Draco's eyes widened and his shoulders slumped. "Potter's mother was Riddle's last victim?"

Lids sweeping down against tears of shame, she nodded. If Harry ever learned she'd told Draco Malfoy, of all people, she knew he'd _never_ forgive her. But, she was beginning to suspect that his father, Lucius, had known all along. All of their families probably at least knew of each other, she realized now.

Brow furrowing, he grasped at words, cobbling together this revelation with what he knew of Riddle's attack on Lily. "So . . . the man who died trying to protect her . . . ."

Again, Hermione nodded. "His father, James."

His own eyes drifted closed, now. "Why are you telling me this, Granger?" Honestly, the knowledge almost compelled him to feel bad for tormenting Potter all these years. _Almost_.

"The public story has always been that Harry's parents died in a crash, but they were really killed by Riddle. Maybe we've been looking at this wrong. James Potter's murder might've been part of it all along, not a crime of convenience like everyone's thought. That would make it eleven, like Voldemort. What if that's what really happened to all your relatives?"

"That would have to mean we were pouring over fake names this whole time."

She shrugged as she wrapped her arms around herself, her skin icy from the discussion, alone. "Fake names and cover stories to protect the victims' families; makes sense. The same way the public was only ever given Lily's maiden name."

"My mother's sister was one of Riddle's victims."

The hollow tone in his voice made her chest clench a painfully for a second, and Hermione forced herself to remember there was nothing wrong with being compassionate. She had no true understanding of what hearing such news must be like, even for a cruel, snarky prat like him.

Her emotional response had nothing to do with Draco, himself. It couldn't, it simply could _not_.

"Seems so," she whispered, her gaze searching his face. "I'm sorry."

"That's probably why my parents act the way they do about the matter, but let's_ not_ focus on that now." Draco leaned back, draping one arm over the back of the sofa. "So all this time, all our families hid this from us. It's a bit . . . much, isn't it? Me, my friends, your friends. I can't wrap my head around this."

"It is a bit much, I agree. But if you were in your parents' position, would you want to have to explain such a gruesome death in the family to your child, regardless of how old they were?"

He scowled, but wasn't certain he wanted to give his parents any leniency in this. "I suppose not."

"But you're right. Let's move on from that, and try to take the larger picture one step at a time, then." Her head was spinning and she pressed her fingers to her temples to still her swirling thoughts, but it offered little relief. "Voldemort kills eleven people, Riddle kills eleven people. Presumably Riddle was copying Voldemort. But the question is why?"

"Because they were both barking mad?"

She dropped her hands, turning her head to look at him. His dark brows had shot up, all but disappearing into his pale hair and she couldn't help the small laugh his expression edged out of her.

"No, I mean . . . Voldemort was after something. I think Riddle figured out whatever that was."

"Okay, now I think _you're_ barking mad."

"I . . ." she scowled at him. "I mean if we think back on what Voldemort was doing. You felt it, right? In the dreams there was really something going on there, something—"

"I swear, if you say magical, I'm going to choke myself to death with those newspapers."

Irritated expression crumbling, she burst out in surprised laughter. "Shut it! I'm being serious, here. It's not the right time for humor."

"Topic's a bit _too_ serious, and that's always the exact right time for humor. Nothing wrong with a bit of levity, Granger." Glancing about quickly, despite that they were alone in a locked attic, he scooped her up and set her in his lap.

"Malfoy!"

"Well," he said, blatantly ignoring her protest as he slid his arms around her waist, "go on, already. You were saying?"

She took a deep breath and released it slowly, her cheeks puffing out. "You said yourself, you felt something, like Voldemort had bound them all together. Maybe the murders were really ritual sacrifices."

Sighing heavily, he dropped his head down against her shoulder, not liking where this was going at all. "So when you say he was after something, you mean he was trying to _gain _something through whatever sort of warped, dark magic they practiced here?"

Hermione nodded as she rested her arms over his. "Exactly. Think about it, maybe there is some link and that's what sort of drew us all together? Well, at least the rest of you; I'm apparently sort of extraneous at this point."

"Drew us all together? Do you hear yourself?" He gave a confused frown. "It's hardly as through we're all friends."

"Yes, that's true, _but _you are two groups of friends who've always been quite naturally at odds with each other."

"How is that the same thing?"

She shrugged, pouting thoughtfully. "Sometimes people just have a certain type of chemistry."

"Well, _we_ certainly have chemistry, but as you said,_ you're_ extraneous."

"Funny. I mean other than the rivalry; it always seemed that wherever one group was, the other one always turned up, too. And have you ever noticed how none of us can really ignore each other?"

"I'm pretty sure we've all tried, though."

She bit back a chuckle. "I'm aware."

"Okay, let's say that we all have some sort of connection because of Riddle. How does that help us at all?"

Groaning, she let her head fall back against Draco's. "I'm not sure it does. Not unless we can figure out what he was after."

"I'd be a little more concerned with how Riddle found out about whatever Voldemort was doing."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugged, the motion causing her to shift against him. "Think about it. The only reason we know half of what we know is because of some weird post-cognitive dreams and sheer dumb luck of stumbling over bits of otherwise random-seeming information. If either one of us was going through this alone, if we didn't have one another to bounce all these completely mad ideas off of, I'm pretty sure _we'd_ be convinced we'd lost our minds by now."

"And Riddle only had himself."

He moved his head from beneath hers, pointedly propping his chin on her shoulder to look at the newspapers. "As far as we know, he only had himself."

"Riddle didn't _know_ any of his sacrifices, personally." Hermione reached for one, opening it for them, both, to read. "So back to the suicides, is what you're saying?"

"Not this one," he said, his gaze moving over the papers scattered across the table. He pointed, "That one there."

"Oh." Dropping the one in her hand on the sofa beside them she leaned forward, reaching for the paper he'd indicated.

Hiding a grin, he tightened his arms around her and pushed his hips up, pressing himself against her.

Her eyelids fluttered at the delicious little thrill that coursed through her body as her hand closed on the paper and she sat back. "You totally did that on purpose."

"Yes, I totally did," he admitted, nipping playfully at the side of her throat. "But that _is_ the correct one."

"It really is amazing we've gotten any work done at all."

Once more he shrugged as he watched her open the paper and begin turning pages. "I guess we just make a good team, even if we hate saying it."

Hermione couldn't help laughing. "A good team that can't seem to think around their urges?"

"I said good, I didn't say anything about convenient or productive."

"Convenience can go hang." She shook her head, she might not admit to what she and Draco had really been up to, but she'd be lying outright if she tried to hide from _him_ that she enjoyed their little secret meetings as much as he did. "But I'd say we've actually been quite productive."

"If not for those urges, we probably could've had this entire thing sorted a week ago."

She cleared her throat as she folded the paper, the article on the suicides open in front of them. "Fine, quite productive under the circumstances."

Draco gave a sideways nod. "Close enough."

Skimming the article, she said in a murmur, "If Riddle did put this together all on his own somehow, then maybe he _did_ go mad, but I've got the most dreadful gnawing feeling that Voldemort was _quiet _sane. Still, thank God we've at least got each other."

Mind on the words in front her, she didn't notice the way his posture stiffened against her. He sat up just a little straighter, his gaze on the side of her face for a moment before he, too, looked to the article.

"Yes, thank God," he echoed, his voice barely audible.

* * *

"I am not enjoying the increased security," Ginny hissed, stuffing her belongings back into her bag as Harry and Ron led her away from the security station. "Has there really been no word on Lavender?"

Exchanging a glance, the young men shook their heads.

"I heard Hermione was dragged into the office to talk to the police after her last class," Harry said, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Ron folded his arms across his chest, glancing away uncomfortably as his sister dropped a kiss on Harry's lips. "She should've been done hours ago. Where the bloody hell is she, then?"

Harry shrugged as he caught Ginny's hand in his own and started toward Gryffindor Hall. "Probably off with the king of prats, again."

"You mean Draco Malfoy?" she asked, trying to clarify.

"Who else would I mean?" Honestly, as though anyone else they knew fit that title. "That stupid paper on Riddle's due Monday, even with all this chaos."

Ginny's brows pinched together and her lips folded inward as she thought back on her discussion with Luna last weekend. Dear God, was it only last weekend?

Ron caught her expression. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm?" She shook her head, forcing a smile. "Oh, nothing. Just . . . wondering how she puts up with him without killing him."

Harry's green eyes rolled as he laughed. "We've all been wondering that."

Ginny cringed, as Ron climbed the steps ahead of them, hoping she and Luna had been wrong.


	17. Dim Recollections

**Will be combing through shortly to fix up typos & missed/misused words.**

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

Dim Recollections

"C'mon, Hermione," Harry said, the exasperated expression on his face making her wonder if he wasn't about to toss her over his shoulder and abscond with her from the library. "It's Saturday, for pity's sake. I'm sure whatever work you've done by now is _more_ than enough to appease even Snape."

She flicked her gaze upward to look at him over the top of the screen. A twinge of guilt wound through her that she'd allowed her friends to believe that dreadful assignment still hung over her head, but it was the only excuse she could think of to gain a few moments privacy.

Some of those _private _moments had been spent panting and half-naked with Draco Malfoy, sure, but . . . well, that wasn't exactly something she could tell her friends, either.

Harry wouldn't walk around the table to see what was actually on the computer, just in case he might spy some new, terrible information about Riddle that he didn't want to know. She was certain that was likely the only thing barring him from physical dragging her away from the keyboard.

Hermione hadn't told anyone about her Riddle murders cover up idea. She didn't know how to broach such a delicate matter. More troubling, still, she would have to explain how she'd come to such an unsettling conclusion, but she'd already tried.

She'd spent most of last night's sleepless hours pacing her room, constructing explanation after explanation, breakdown after breakdown. It all sounded completely mad out of context to what she and Malfoy had learned, first-hand.

And she didn't imagine any news that was cushioned in the her-and-Draco angle would go over very well with her friends. The only way for any of it to make sense would be for her to literally walk them through every revelation, every nerve-wracking, sleep-deprived, ghost-whispering moment.

She wasn't entirely certain that _any _of it would sound logical to someone with a fully rested mind. True, she couldn't discount any of it, but she simply couldn't share, either.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, there's just this one last thing I wanted to check," she said with an apologetic smile.

Despite the results of their first search, she'd decided to look into the name Voldemort again. Nothing had come up, even local history hadn't given her anything about the sacrifices of the clergy.

She was beginning to think Draco was right—their best chance at finding any clues was probably in that crumbling, death-trap of a church. But then she'd remembered that Voldemort wasn't the only name they had to go on.

Harry had walked in just as she'd been about to type Dumbledore's name into the search engine.

He frowned. "I've lost enough time with you to Malfoy, already. C'mon. Look, if you can't make it through a slice of pizza without worrying yourself sick over this paper, then I'll bring you right back here myself.

As he spoke, she quietly typed in the name and hit _enter_. She forced a sigh, rolling her eyes—he was right, of course, she needed to eat—and clicked on the first link to pop up. She recognized that he deliberately avoided mentioning Lavender, or, more appropriately the lack of information regarding Lavender. They all were, it was the only way to not shut down, to not shut themselves up in Gryffindor Hall, cut off the world and obsess over the maybes of what might have happened to her.

_She's okay. Wherever she is, she's okay. She _has _to be, _Hermione told herself, her inner-voice adamant.

Frowning thoughtfully, she opened a new window and emailed herself the link, cc'ing Draco.

"Hermione," Harry said impatiently.

Clearing the search history, she pushed out of the seat and grabbed her bag. "Fine, fine. No more today."

* * *

The buzzing of his phone close to his ear roused Draco from out of drowsy half-sleep. He rubbed his fists against his eyes and sat up slowly. The prattling of voices around him silenced instantly, giving him the oddest sensation that his friends were holding their breath as they waited to for him to speak or do something.

Frowning, he glanced from Crabbe to Goyle, and then Pansy to Blaise. They all looked . . . pale, drained. Pansy was the only one not sporting dark circles under her eyes, but he'd wager that was more the magic of makeup than the benefit of having rested more than the others. Strange, they all looked like they'd not been sleeping, either. How had he not noticed sooner?

Probably because he'd been distracted by Granger. Oh, and the whole Riddle mess, too.

He shifted against the armchair in which he'd, apparently, been dozing. "Why d'you all look like death warmed over?"

Pansy let out a hopeless sigh—the boy never listened. She wondered briefly if she should give up on the idea of them ever being an item again. "Draco, we just discussed this yesterday." Casting a concerned look around the coffee table, she went on, "Nobody's been sleeping well. Seems like everyone's having bad dreams. And then there's this business with that Gryffindor girl vanishing."

Draco sat forward, suddenly wide awake—or as close as he could be in his sleep-deprived state—as his gaze darted about the group. "Dreams about what?"

"That's the thing," Blaise said, his tone low and thoughtful. "We can't remember, not well, anyway. I mean, I think I remember something about . . . a bonfire? Maybe?"

A dark brow inched up Draco's forehead. "A bonfire, _maybe_?"

"I remember something about . . ." Pansy's words trailed off and she looked at the floor as she bit her lip. "Sorry, I . . . I can't say, it was . . . well—"

"Well?" Blaise prompted with a smirk.

She blushed and thumped his knee with her fist. "I'm not sure I should say, but, um . . . ."

Blue eyes rolling exhaustedly, Draco raised a hand in surrender. "Fine, fine, we get it. What about you two?" He asked of Crabbe and Goyle.

The two—who, Draco thought of in moments like this as the Slytherin Braintrust—exchanged a glance and then each shrugged. Honestly, they should've been born twins.

"I remember feeling like something really bad was happening," Goyle said, muttering his words. He seemed to think his inability to recollect anything more was a disappointment to Draco.

Or, Draco considered with a barely-concealed scowl, a disappointment to a Malfoy.

Crabbe remained silent, his chubby face tightened in concentration as he tried to recall some detail more than the others had.

"Stop, please," Draco insisted. "You're going to pop a blood vessel."

Heaving a sigh, Crabbe nodded and gave up the attempt.

They were all having dreams, all losing sleep. And they'd all lost relatives to Riddle, but . . . he was the only one who knew that. Well, he and Granger. This couldn't be a coincidence.

Snatching up his phone, he stood and stepped around the table.

"Draco?" Pansy's voice was thin and nagging. "Where are you going?"

Draco had all he could do not to hunch his shoulders at her tone. Now that he thought back on it, perhaps he'd dated her last year so that shutting her up with a kiss was an option.

He shook his head, not looking back at them as he walked across the common room. "I just remembered I still have to finish up that paper for Snape."

Pansy scrunched up her face, speaking in a high pitch, "More time with the Gryffindors."

With another exasperated eye roll, Draco closed the door on the sound of his friends chuckling.

* * *

"We're trying not to talk about her, Luna," Neville reminded in a light tone.

Luna's wide, dreamy blue eyes looked wider than normal, almost owl-like, Hermione thought, ringed by dark circles as they were.

"Sorry," she said softly, one corner of her mouth twitching as she dropped her gaze to the floor.

Wearing a sad smile, Hermione bumped Luna's shoulder with her own. "It's okay, we're just . . . worried, is all. Don't want to think about it."

Harry was doodling something on a napkin and when Luna peeked between his and Ginny's shoulders to get a look, he folded the paper over on itself. "Excuse me?" He said, feigning irritation.

Casting a quick glance at the other girls, Ginny snatched the napkin from Harry and held it out to Hermione.

Giggling as Harry protested and tried to get the napkin back, Hermione grabbed it and slid out of the booth. She opened the napkin and her laughter died on her lips.

"Harry, what is this?"

He shifted uncomfortably as the mood of their collected group suddenly shifted. Something in Hermione's serious, frightened tone spoke to each of them.

"I don't know, really. I think I saw them in a dream."

Hermione reminded herself to breathe as she forced a gulp down her throat. Without another word, she turned on a heel.

"Oy!" Harry yelled, but she didn't hear him.

A delicate touch on her arm caught her attention, though. She glanced over her shoulder to see Luna's enormous eyes peering up at her. "Luna, I can't explain, but I have to—"

"I know," Luna whispered, her face stern in a way that was very un-Luna. "But I needed to tell _you _that I had a dream, too. The blood of the twelve is all I remember, though."

A chill ran up Hermione's spine. She'd always known about Luna's claims of being psychic, but nothing ever prepared her for the moments the girl made good on those claims. "Blood of the twelve," she echoed breathlessly. "Do you know what that means?"

Luna shook her head. "No, but . . . it needs to be twelve."

Frowning, Hermione stood a little straighter, glancing briefly at Harry, who was still being talked down by Ginny, Neville and Ron. Though Ron seemed to only have been paying attention half the time.

"What needs to be twelve, Luna?"

"I don't know," the wispy girl said with a shrug. "I just remember that. It has to be twelve, but twelve it's never been."

Hermione furrowed a brow, glancing from Luna's ever-searching gaze to the napkin in her hand. "I'll . . . I'll try to figure that out, but I think you just helped me with something, Luna!" She dropped a kiss on her friend's cheek and then bolted through the door.

Reaching for her phone, she nearly dropped it in shock as it rang in her hand. Cutting across the quad at a brisk pace, she looked at the faceplate to see the name _Malfoy_. Setting the phone to her ear, she said in a rushed whisper, "That's so weird, I was just about to call you. Is this about the email?"

"What email? I haven't checked. Anyway, I was just coming to find you. We need to talk," he replied, his breathy tone alerting her that he was probably running about, literally coming to find her.

"Okay, okay. I'll meet you in the library."

Hanging up, she once more looked to the napkin, to the symbols Harry had drawn. The same symbols on the hidden room's walls, the same symbols on the gravestones.

Only, Harry's drawing included the last symbol. The one that had graced Hermione's arm just a week ago.

* * *

Lavender forced her eyes open. The monumental feat exhausted her. She couldn't remember ever feeling so tired, but there was a gentleness, too. A strange, listless sensation that made her unable to register the fear she dimly recalled from the last time she'd opened her eyes.

She tried, as before to lift her limbs, to feel something, but there seemed nothing to feel. Her arms and legs would not respond. Even shifting in place, to feel the straps against her skin, was more effort than she could manage.

The malformed hands appeared again, hovering over her, but they looked different now. The fingers were straighter, the knuckles less knobby. One hand lowered, gently stroking her face.

A trickle of cold down her cheek made her aware that she was crying. Why was she crying? She couldn't remember, it was all so fuzzy. Her eyes drifted closed and she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I want to go home."

He leaned over her, pressing his lips to her forehead. "You're going someplace where there's no pain, isn't that better than any home?"

Unsure why those words sent a chill through her, why they caused a dull, nameless terror to thud through her, she tried to open her mouth again to protest, but her lips wouldn't work.

Lavender wondered what the odd tugging sensation in the center of her chest was, it reminded her of fabric tearing from being pulled in opposite directions. Her body jerked and she felt oddly disconnected as she drifted off, again.


	18. Untruthfulness

**As some of you may have noticed, I suddenly seem to have quite a few HP fics going (as it stands, **_**Scavengers**_** is the only AU). I simply wanted to say that writing the new fics is not what is causing my update delay to **_**this**_** fic, so much as when writing anything, after a point, I begin to lose steam, so rather than charging on ahead until I putter out & risk leaving this fic unfinished, I've chosen to slow down on the writing and be certain I know where it's going & that everything is heading in the correct direction as I go along so that I don't lose the thread of this story.**

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Untruthfulness

Draco frowned, looking over the symbols drawn on the napkin—for what she thought must've been the tenth time—before he finally spoke. "Potter drew these?"

Hermione nodded, but remained silent; her lips pursed as they sat huddled together in a corner of the library. She knew the way they leaned into each other wouldn't look good if any of their friends spotted them, but she was too unnerved to care.

She also couldn't believe she was relying on Draco Malfoy for feelings of comfort or protection, yet there it was.

"This gets stranger by the minute, but perhaps in a way, it's also starting to make sense."

Meeting his gaze as he slipped the napkin back into her hand, she asked, "What'd you mean?"

He shrugged, sighing. "Well, I was coming to find you because it's not just you and I—and apparently you friends—who're having the dreams, it's my friends, too. They can write this is one of those Rowling things, but _we_ can't, not anymore. If we tried to explain it, they'd think we were barking."

"Oh, I know," she said in a murmur, uttering a quick laugh. "I've tried to think it through so many times and it seems to sound more insane, every time."

"Tell me again what your sprite-friend said."

"_It must be twelve, but twelve it's never been_." Hermione repressed a shudder. The cryptic sentence felt strange rolling off her tongue.

"If we assume Voldemort was the thirteenth symbol that takes him out of the equation, leaving us back at twelve. But his bride escaped the sacrifices, bringing the number down to eleven. We're so stupid."

She couldn't help smirking. "I doubt either of us fits that description."

"No, I . . . ." Mirroring her expression, leaned closer, nipping the tip of her nose. "I mean it's been right _there_, in front of us. Whatever he was _trying_ to get he couldn't, because he never completed the ritual the sacrifices were part of."

"So the bride escapes and Voldemort is caught and put to the stake. And then Riddle tries the whole mess all over again, but is killed—"

"Presumably, before he can get to whomever he marked as number twelve."

"Exactly, so . . . ." She couldn't believe what she was thinking—in fact, she absolutely loathed the words tumbling through her head. "What if I'm connected to this because one of my relatives was _supposed_ to be Riddle's number twelve?"

Draco shifted against her, looking away. His gaze flitted about the room as he cleared his throat. "I dread to say this, but I'm . . . worried about you, Granger. We're all having these dreams, but you're the only one who was marked and the only one who didn't lose someone to Riddle."

Hermione's mind stopped working, or at least that was how she felt, as the tiny, ever-babbling inner voice quieted. "I—I don't follow."

He rolled his eyes, lids drifting closed. "Yes, you do. If there's someone out there recreating Voldemort's sacrifice ritual—again—maybe they're trying to avoid Riddle's fate. Rather than reenacting the entire ritual, they're only trying to _complete_ it."

She wrapped her arms around herself as she tried to wish away a sudden wash of goose bumps. "So . . ." she ducked her head, pressing her forehead against the side of his throat. "_I'm_ number twelve, now."

"Technically, we don't know if any of this is correct. We don't know for certain there's any copycat out there, at all, and even if there is, they might just be copying the crimes, themselves."

"Nothing to do with ritual sacrifices, whatsoever, huh?"

"Exactly," he said with a shrug.

She cracked a grin. "I know you think you just spoke rubbish. But thank you."

"Maybe this is a good thing."

Sitting up quickly, she arched a brow. "How?"

He glanced about, somehow more concerned someone might overhear what he was about to say than he'd been about anyone seeing them hanging on each other. "The clergy, and Riddle's victims, none of them knew what might be coming, but we do. You think there's some sort of spiritual connection going on here, something linking us to what happened in the past. That we're being made to stay in a state which makes us more susceptible to meditation and trances."

"I vaguely recall saying something to that effect, yes." She told herself she still didn't track his meaning, but only because she wasn't certain she liked where she _thought_ he was going with this.

His face pinched; he disliked what he was about to say, but his idea was no less mad than anything else they'd done the past two weeks. "Use the connection. When you're falling asleep, remember the dreams you've had so far. Maybe you'll have another that will tell you something more."

"You mean something that'll tell us what the ritual was for."

He nodded, his expression still dour. "That's exactly what I mean."

"I don't like this plan," she whispered.

"I don't, either. Not really."

"This whole thing terrifies me," Hermione admitted, finally saying those words aloud. She expected to feel a little better, or to experience some small flood of relief now that she'd shared that, but nothing of the sort happened.

Draco's gaze searched her face before he lifted a hand, tracing his fingertips along her jaw. "Like you said, at least you're not alone."

One corner of her mouth lifted in a tiny half-smile. "I vaguely recall saying something to that effect," she repeated.

A sound like a funeral dirge came from his pocket. She tore herself from his side, her attention glued to the source of the noise.

His eyes squeezed shut as he extracted his phone. "And that would be my father calling."

"Are you serious?"

He nodded.

"And he knows that's the ringtone you chose for him?"

He shook his head as he answered the call. "Father, to what do I owe— I see, well, certainly I—" Rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, he set his jaw. "I understand, I'll be right there."

Hermione glanced around uncertainly, only speaking after he'd put his phone away. "Right _where_?"

"Slytherin Hall."

She forced a gulp, sitting up a little straighter as she reflected on how uncharacteristically touch-feely she and Draco had been acting up until a moment ago. With how his legacy-brat friends looked at her—for merely spending time with Draco when she wasn't rich and spoiled, like they were—she didn't want to imagine how his father would respond to his son's _true_ involvement with her.

"What's he doing here?"

"Probably just checking to make certain the police are under _more _than adequate pressure."

"Great, I'll just . . . stay here and get to that Dumbledore link."

"Right, we completely sidetracked from it."

" 'S all right," she muttered, guessing from the reaction of the detectives to the Malfoy name, as well as Draco's response to his father's sudden appearance on campus, that she should be glad for a reason to stay behind. "Any excuse to not be where your father is."

Rising from his seat, he groaned as his head fell forward a bit, so that he held her gaze, still. "I envy you."

"I know," Hermione said with a sweet smile.

She watched him leave, knowing better than to expect a kiss, despite sort-of cuddling in a public, if currently vacant, place. She'd pointedly ignored their physical interactions during their talk, she knew she had; that neither of them had really considered the way they were acting, until after they'd stopped.

Until now, when he was walking away.

The realization jarred her a little. They were _not _getting emotional about each other; no, they couldn't be! Certainly she was the only one who noticed their behavior, she was positive of that.

. . . The only one who regretted that he couldn't give her something as simple and innocent as a goodbye kiss before one of them left a room.

But then, at the door, Draco turned his head, looking over his shoulder at her. Something about the confused expression on his face, about the way his gaze swept over her, made her breath catch in her throat for just a second.

She didn't want to admit the flush of warmth she felt in her chest. Didn't want to think there was anything more to this. They had an agreement and if they felt something then . . . she forced a small gulp down her throat. She didn't want to deal with what they'd agreed to if their relationship became emotional.

Hermione pulled her gaze from his and looked to the floor. This was all in her head anyway, it _had _to be. He couldn't possibly be as uncertain about what they were to each other as she was. So she didn't need to acknowledge her . . . misgivings. If he brought this up—if it did, unquestionably, become something more—well, they'd deal with it_ then._

"Why are you _every_where?" Harry's voice cut across the silent room, immediately drawing Hermione's attention right back to the doors.

There stood her best friend, glaring at her . . . well, at _Draco_.

Draco bit back a scathing retort, immediately recalling the secret Granger had shared about Potter's mother and father. He quickly recovered, however, remembering as well, that he'd promised her he'd act as though he didn't know any such thing.

At least the prat had good timing. To think, he'd almost been about to dart back across the library and steal a kiss from her before he _officially_ stormed off to another, likely unpleasant, visit with his father.

"There you go again, Potter, troubling yourself with the business of your betters."

Harry scowled, green eyes narrowing maliciously, but only watched him walk out the door.

Once Hermione would have automatically mirrored Harry's aggravated expression, yet just now she found she had to remind herself. Not because she found Malfoy's comment any less infuriating, but because she'd noticed his pause, noticed that, when once such a response would have been instantaneous, just now, he'd had to think about it.

What she'd told him about Harry had affected him, yet he kept his word to her by pretending nothing had changed. She sighed and shook her head as Harry approached; she was in so much trouble when it came to Draco Malfoy.

"Mind telling me why you ran out like a mad woman earlier?"

In a flash, she recalled the moment to which he referred. "Oh, right." She put the napkin on the table. "Sorry, I just . . . thought they looked familiar, so I wanted to see if they actually meant anything."

Brow furrowing, he glanced over his shoulder to the exit. "Then what was he—"

"How should I know? He was already here when I came in." At least the second half of what she said was true, Draco _had_ arrived at the library first.

Harry shook his head, sitting beside her as he picked up the napkin. "So, did they mean anything?"

Hermione held in another sigh. She _hated_ lying to Harry, but she didn't know where to begin with this, despite that blurting out absolutely everything was exactly what she wanted to do. And so many lies she's had to give Harry recently. It didn't matter that her _lies_ were lies-by-omission; she felt no different than if she were speaking untruths to his face.

"No," she waved a dismissive hand toward the computer, adding so that her response wasn't a _complete _lie, "searched as many internet databases as I could think of, couldn't find anything."

"Good," as quickly as he sat, he was up again, clamping a hand around her wrist to pull her from her seat. "Then you don't need to be in here."

"What? But I—"

"You just admitted you're not working on your assignment right now and you ran off without eating thing. Since I can't remember the last time I saw you eat anything, I'm not letting you out of my sight 'til you do."

"Harry!"

"Shut it."

Looking forlornly back at the computer, she let him drag her through the door. Hermione refused to check from her phone while with her friends; one glimpse over her shoulder could lead to questions for which she had no answer. She'd just have to look into that link on Dumbledore later, in the privacy of her own room.

She thought if she focused enough for a moment, she might actually feel the burden of secrecy and lies press down on her like a physical weight. Harry clearly thought her loss of appetite was a result of Lavender's disappearance, and she couldn't tell him otherwise.

In an odd way, she wished that _could_ be the truth.


End file.
